Eastward Bound

Only four children came to the August library performance, and three of those came because I talked to them in the park the night before.  With only 274 people in the village and many of those on vacation, that was fine. 

Then it was Lincoln, Montana for a second performance and after that my final drive over the Great Divide.  Cool weather has come to the west so there were no car problems.

I drove through incredible scenery until I finally got tired at Wilsall.  I went to the grocery store and asked about camping.  Go to the motel the clerk told me. 

I don't want a motel, I said.

You can camp there, she said, and called ahead.  That's how I wound up at Fort Wilsall Motel, which is not historic, it just looks like a fort, with a wooden stake fence surrounding several small log units.  I could stay in one of them, rent a tepee, or just throw up my own tent.  I opted for the tent. 

What was amazing was the bath house.  Here was a shower, a flush toilet, running water all in a big room.  Here were the nicest toilet facilities I had in the trip.  The shower's floor was made up of slabs of rock.

I ate ate supper at the local bar.  In these small towns, the restaurants are fabulous.  Gary thought there might be trout considering all the fishing that goes on in these parts, but no, just the usual cod.  Still good.

I slept well with no rooster to slay.  The mosquitoes are horrendous in these parts, but none entered my tent.  This morning I watched tree swallows feed their offspring in one was supposed to be a bluebird house.  The youngsters made a racket and they vied for the tasty mosquitoes their parents brought.  Tree swallows are about the best mosquito preventative there is.

So now I am going eastward.   I will camp once more in the Gallatin National Forest, as I did so many years ago.  I am feeling euphoric as I get closer to home, but there is the sadness of knowing that by tomorrow, the white capped mountains will be behind me.  When will I see them again?

Augusta, Montana

I couldn't face another night in a motel.  Nothing ever happens in those cubicles.  You hardly talk to anyone but the desk clerk.  You get reacquainted with terrible television.  You catch up on the bad news.  Who needs that? 

So after two nights at Motel 6s, and no sign of decent camping in the vicinity of Helena, I was feeling desperate and a bit depressed.  Gary suggested that I talk to the librarians and ask their advice.  Good plan! 

Candice at the Helena library got on the phone and called the other branch libraries.  Susan, at the Augusta Library said come on up and camp in the city park.  What a relief.  So I finished my performance at Helena, bought a scone at the library's coffee shop, then stopped at a cart outside for a bratwurst.  I had my doubts.  Can you buy real brats outside of Wisconsin?  Apparently not, it was just a jumped up hot dog.

Then to East Helena for another performance and then a drive to Augusta.  I spoke too soon about crossing the Great Divide yesterday because Augusta is on the Pacific side of that dividing line. Still, no worries, because the great heat of the past few days was finally over, so the Sable behaved.

Augusta holds 274 souls, but a lot of heart.  I stopped in the library before it closed and Susan began to tell me about the artists who came here to paint the scenery and stayed.  There are three restaurants, an art gallery, a small school (four students in the ninth grade), a post office, and of course a library.  There are all kind of cultural events, including a short story reading group at the library.

The city park, directly behind the library, provides free camping.   I would be the only camper.  I set up the tent and went off to grab a salad at the Buckthorn Cafe after stopping to let the guys at the garage know I was going to be over at the park.  The owner is the president of the VFW, which maintains the park, and he was soon over to check things out.  He warned me about  big storm that was coming, but  by now I've camped through more than my share of thunder and rain.  My tent is fine as long as I am in it weighing it down.

As I sat at the picnic table reading a book and drinking tea, the residents of Augusta began to wander through the park.  A fellow brought his dog and three children.  Two guys in pickups circled around.  Two girls rode their horses through though the signs specifically forbade horses.  I suppose they were all talking about the crazy woman camping solo in their park.

A storm did hit that night, but did no damage.  I woke as I often do in the middle of the night.  I usually read a bit or do a sudoku puzzle until I can drowse off, but every time I turned on my little lantern,  three dogs began to bark.  OK, I did without that.

But at 5:00 a.m. a nearby rooster began to crow.  I have a camping hatchet, and if that bird had come anywhere near, he would have been an ex-rooster.

In the morning, Susan treated me to breakfast, I stopped at the gallery/boutique, finding a book I hadn't read,bought groceries at the well stocked and reasonably priced grocery store, and did a fun performance for the three children who had been in the park the night before.

I left with fond memories of Augusta, population 274. Isn't that better than yet another stay at a motel?

Another Motel

Yesterday was one of those days on the road that was purely frustrating.  Here's how it went:

I left Missoula late yesterday after bookkeeping, laundry, and re-packing the car.  That late departure was a mistake because the temperatures had mounted while I was busy, up to 89 degrees F..

The mechanics in Reno thought I would have no trouble crossing Idaho and Montana because it would likely be cooler that far north than in Nevada.  In truth, I had no trouble with the car overheating along the coast and across Idaho...until today.

As I climbed higher and higher into the Rockies on Highway 12, the temperature rose and rose, until it was 98 degrees.  I kept an eye on the rivers which were still heading west as I traveled east.  I thought about one of my favorite songs, Kate Wolf's "Across the Great Divide."

It's gone away, yesterday, and I find myself on the mountainside
Where the rivers change directions, across the Great Divide.

Once I got across the Great Divide and the rivers started emptying toward the Mississippi, the slopes would take me downhill to the Midwest. 

But as I started up MacDonald Pass, I watched the heat gauge climb, too.  At the very top of the pass, in 100 degree heat, I had to pull over and go through the coolant ritual.  I was well prepared but it meant staying at the site of the highway for half an hour in that awful heat.  Then some fellows stopped by to offer help but by then, I had things well in hand.  I took some photos and kept going down slope, figuring my troubles were over.

Helena was right ahead.  I stopped for lunch and queried about the location of campgrounds. 

I have commented before about men giving directions whether they knew anything or not.  They first suggested the campground on MacDonald Pass.  However, that's where I was stalled and I knew the campground was closed. 

Where's the forest service located I asked.  They immediately started giving me instructions that had something to do with a helicopter.  I went off trying my best to follow what they told me and wound up in East Helena where I stopped for gas and got more instructions.  I finally asked the clerk for a map of Helena.  They all helped me locate where I was and where that ranger station was...behind a tire company.

OK.  I followed the map, went past that helicopter and found what they had been steering me towards.  Except it wasn't there.  A sign gave the new address.  Using the map, I finally found the National Forest Service, near the airport.  There the ranger in charge told me that the campsite I originally wanted, Park Lake, had been denuded of trees.  There had been a blight in the area and most of the trees had to be cut down.  "Moose Creek would be good," he said.  It seems most of the trees were gone but the first few sites still offered some shade.

So off I went, finding Moose Creek fifteen miles away.  The fee station said $5 a night, which for those of us with senior access passes, meant $2.50.  But when I got into the campground, those shady places had already been taken.  No reservations, it's first come, first served in most national forest campgrounds.  I found only three sites left and all of those were covered with the detritus left by the logging companies.  It would take me at least an hour in the 100 degree heat to clear a place for my tent. 

As I walked around, I looked at the campers who had come before me.  My nearest neighbor had a crying baby and two small dogs that Gary calls "yap and crappers", the kind that bark all night.

Most of the other sites had cars with University of Montana stickers.  More arrived carting cases of beer.  These were older than the Mormon teenagers I had scared with a blast of my car alarm in Utah. As I drove out of the campground, two pickups approached dragging trailers with ATVs.   $2.50 was way too much to pay for a campground like that.

 I spent the next two hours trying to find a place to pitch my tent, but all I could find was an RV camp with only a spot of grass and no trees. 

So here I am at yet another motel, hoping for cooler temperatures and a suitable campground tonight.

Motel 6, Missoula, Montana

This is my fifth motel stay since I left Seymour on June 20.  Those first motel stays had to do with terrible weather and lack of suitable camping spots.  Then I hit my stride about two weeks ago and kept to the national forests and state parks. 

This stay has more to do with getting caught up with paperwork.  I needed to have several hours of uninterrupted Internet access, something I never got at libraries, coffee shops or McDonald's.  Last night I checked in with my bank, justified my checkbook (I forgot to make some entries), and figured out how I am doing financially.   I find I am pretty much on track and should make a small profit from the trip.  Some things cost more than I expected, others less. 

Then there are a few postcards to write out, some of them purchased two weeks ago. Best get at that.

This morning, I am taking a look at some of the photos I've been taking.  I plan to turn them into a travelogue "slide show" to present as adult programs at Wisconsin libraries this winter. 

This stay also gives me a chance to do some laundry and stay out of the 100 degree F. heat for a while.  By the time I leave here at noon it will be beastly hot but should cool down by tonight so I can sleep in the national forests once again. 

There are six more performances, three states, nine days before I pull into the driveway on Lincoln Street in Seymour. 

Gary has been keeping his own records.  He remarked that when I was in Moab, it would take him 43 hours of driving to come and rescue me.  Each state means less time for him to deal with any disasters I might encounter.  So far, nothing has needed his ministrations.

I look forward to hugging my hero in nine days.

Homeward Bound

When I was a little kid, my grandparents went West with a Nash sedan, one that pre-dated the Nash Rambler and who remembers either of them?

When they returned, my grandmother's right arm was red and blistered.  The temperatures had been ungodly high so she stuck her arm out the passenger window to get some cool relief...except it got horribly sunburned.   She told me never to do that and I didn't.  During the entire trip west, I kept my left arm in the car.  That arm is darker than the right, but it was never burned. 

Today, I realized that the sun wasn't shining in the driver's side at all.  I am heading home. 

Gary told me to take Highway 12 from Washington State to Missoula.  It would be shorter than my original plan and would be the scenic route along the Clearwater River, the route Lewis and Clark took.

Scenic it was.  Mileage wise it was shorter....as the crow flies.  I began the drive around 8:00 a.m. Pacific time and arrived here in Missoula before 4:00 p.m. Mountain time.  In between, I drove through coils of curves.  There were few barriers between cars and the precipices.  Look at the magnificent scenery?  Seldom, I kept my eyes on the road.  RV's, pickups, motorcycles came speeding up behind me and I would have to find the "turnouts" which were unmarked and short.  Misjudge and I could go flying into the river. 

There were three such accidents.  There was a twisted wreckage of a semi-trailer against the rock face on the other side of the road. The truck driver must have chosen crashing into the stone over going into the brink.

Then there was that accident with a full group of workers as I cam around the bend.  They were dealing with bits and pieces of something.  They had signs that said "accident" but I wasn't sure what it was.

I was sure about the car wreck.  The car obviously had rolled down rocks because the windows were broken out, but the car was 1/3 under the Clearwater River.  

I don't get scared easily, but this drive gave me the willies.

Pretty though.  

Frustrations

 Writing a daily blog is not always easy.  The writing is not so difficult, there's plenty to write about, but accessing the Internet can be.  I travel unusual paths.  There are two places I can figure on getting on line, the public library and McDonald's.

In most cities, the library keeps the WiFi system going 24 hours a day as a service to the community, but there are still libraries that shut everything down when they close.  McDonald's are few and far between in remote areas.  That's the way it was yesterday at Estacada. 

So, I have been missing chunks of the story.  I've yet to write about the Redwood National Park, campgrounds I've stayed at, and the many people I've talked to.  Those stories will have to wait until I return from this tour and fill in the blanks.  Today, I will write about Oregon, leaving Nevada and California for later.

Soon after I crossed the border into Oregon, I fell in love.  I took Highway 101 along the coast, going from little village to little village with ocean scenes in between.

I camped west of Gold Beach on the Rogue River at Lobster Creek.  I spent part of the morning wandering along the creek looking for agates, but had no luck.  Then I told stories at the library.  Everyone wanted to talk to me afterwards, so I had a late start getting back on the road, and that meant I didn't get as far as I wanted.  It meant I had to "settle" for Cape Perpetua near Yachats.  Settle  This is the view there:

I asked Gary why I had to return home.

At the grocery store in Yachuts, I asked the checkout clerk why young people ever left the state. 

"It rains six months a year," he said. 

Never mind, I thought, this place is beautiful, but with regrets I tore myself away from the coast and headed north.  Then at Portland, I met the mother of all traffic jams.  I amended my Oregon-lust thoughts to exclude that city. 

I camped at Lost Bend west of Estacada last night, lucky to snag the last free campsite on a Friday night.

It began to rain at 1:00 a.m.  I finally gave up at 7:00 and packed up in the pounding rain.

One of the other campers walked by and shrugged.  "It's Oregon," she said.

Oregon, you were one cruel lover this morning. But I still hold you in a corner of my heart.

Fish and Chips

 I came into Oregon at Brookings Harbor, along Highway 101, grooving on the spectacular scenery.  Down by the shore I came across a fish and chips sign and knew what I wanted for supper, but it was only 3:30 and I wasn't hungry.  I would drive on to Gold Beach and get my fish and chips there.

But there were no fish and chips stands at Gold Beach.  The chamber of commerce visitors' center could only suggest a sit down meal and a fancy restaurant.  Cloth tablecloths and fish and chips do not go hand in hand.  What was needed was some kind of ocean fish dripping with grease through a piece of newspaper.

I went to the laundromat to do my laundry and think about what I wanted to eat.  There in the parking lot, a girl was hanging swimsuits on a line strung from car door to car door.  Hmmm, I thought.  Where have I seen that before?

"Have you found a good fish and chips place?"  I asked her.

"No," she said, "my mates and I were just wondering about that."

Australian, I knew it!  We began to compare great pieces of cod, memories of walking down streets with our friends munching on grease and fish.  But we came up with no place to eat.

They took off, heading north.  New people, locals, came into the laundromat.  I asked them about fish and they pointed to a Mexican place across the street.  "They serve fish, too."

I went over and sure enough, the little snack shop had exactly what was required.   So I ate and did the laundry and was satisfied...except I felt guilty eating my fish and chips without those Aussies.

Fast forward to today.  I was still grooving north on Highway 101 enjoying the scenery when I spotted a sign:  Crazy Old Norwegian Fish and Chips.  I pulled over and went in to order a sandwich.

"By any chance, did some Australians come in here last night?" 

"How did you know?" 

So now I feel better. 

P.S.  I have problems finding Internet access the past two days.  I am getting way behind on this journey so will just tell the stories as they come and do some remedial storytelling later on this year.

Little problems

I told stories at a nursing home in Reno, Nevada.  The receptionist sent me to a spot that seemed reasonable enough, with a baby grand piano behind me and the residents in a half circle.  I started.

That's when I found out that the path through the performance area was a main thoroughfare for nursing home traffic.  The residents wandering through and nurses administering medications were bad enough.  I was used to that.  But then a moving company began to bring in the furniture for two new residents, a man and his wife.  That room must have been enormous.  Mattresses, a television set, dressers, a desk, and more came through, all while I was trying to perform.  In the end, we made it into a running joke.  I told the residents about the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee.  That city is a major switching yard for the railroad.  Whenever a train came through, the storytellers simply stopped and waited.   Same thing for the moving guys.  We all were good natured about it, I thought. When the two guys finished, we all gave them a round of applause.

In the end, the residents asked me to stay a little longer and sing more songs for them, and I did.

After that, I took my car to Jiffy Lube to double check the work that was done in Golden, but they steered me to a garage a block away.  Those guys were real sweeties.   They decided the overheating was not due to the thermostat but to the radiator...and even that wouldn't be a problem when I got the old car back to Wisconsin.

Their advice:
1.  Watch elevations. Mark summits on the map.  That's where I could expect to have problems.
2.  Pay attention to the big rigs.  If they are having problems, so will I.   
3.  Travel when the weather is cool.  They figured that heat was my biggest problem.

Then they told me the routes to take to avoid high elevations.  They thought the worst would be getting to Gold Beach, Oregon.  I will try to do that route early in the morning to avoid the heat.

So far so good.  I am in Weaverville, California and haven't had a problem since I left Reno. 

Two Tales

First Story:

When I camp, I take my car keys into the tent at night, not worrying about car theft but figuring in case of a bear deciding to visit, I could hit the car alarm.  I figure the siren plus flashing lights would deter any bruin.  That plan proved useful two nights ago.

Some teenagers were setting up camp next to me.  I thought nothing about it, they seemed quiet enough.  Tired, I went to bed about 9:00 pm.  That quiet ended at 10:30 when they started talking loudly, playing their stereo and welcoming more young people.  It was a full scale beer party in the middle of Mormon Utah.  This went on and on.  I kept thinking they would start to take the post-10:00 pm quiet time seriously, but no.

Around midnight I began to wonder about our camp host.  In most of the western national forest campgrounds there is a senior citizen host who checks on bathroom supplies, collects fees and is supposed to keep an eye on things.  Where was he?  I looked over to his camper.  His SUV was there, but the lights were off. 

I couldn't figure it out until I visualized our conversation when I signed in.  He kept fiddling with his hearing aid.  He must have taken it out when he went to bed.  I bet those kids knew that very well.

Well, I know just how to wake him up. I hit my handy bear alarm, lights flashed and the siren blared.  I left it on for five seconds.  When I stopped it, all the lights next door were out, the stereo was off, and not a peep could be heard, not even a whisper.  It reminded me of Bilbo Baggins and the wood elves in the Hobbit. 

Next day other campers thanked me.

Tale two:

I was in Winnemucca, Nevada scouting out possible places to stay overnight.  I saw a sign that said rooms could be had for $25 a night.  I went over to check it out. 

"Is that true?" I asked a man and woman sunning themselves at the veranda. 

"Are you one of the regulars," the woman with the low cut top and too much makeup asked.  Then she took off her sunglasses and took a look at me.  We both started to laugh. 

$25 a night was a good deal for the owner because she would rent those rooms out several times a night. At my age, I wouldn't be able to make enough hustling to cover the $25.

A Tale or Two

Just a few tales.  I will do my best to write another tonight, but finding access is always difficult.

I went to the Dugway Utah base, passed the security checkup, filled up with cheap gas and went to the lovely base library, only to find that most of the base's children were on vacation.  I wound up with three children, one a two year old with a zero attention span and another, a little girl, who really wanted to take a nap.  That left one boy who wanted to be a writer, so he got my full attention. I've had audiences of over a hundred.  An audience of one is much more difficult, but I managed. 

Next it was on to Ogden, and Anderson Cove, but I had no idea how to get there, except that zen driving usually get me where I want to go.  I wandered north of Salt Lake City,turned off on what looked like a promising highway,  went a few miles and pulled into a Sinclair station. 

"How do I get to Anderson Cove?" I asked.  None of the clerks knew  but the guy waiting in line behind me said, "I live there.  Just follow me."  I did and found the cove, but the campground was totally full.  I am finding that to be true whenever there is water involved. 

The rangers pointed me to Magpie Campground.  I found site no. 1 and there I was for the night. I explored the Huntsville area for a while, found a great ice cream place and the awesome library. I am told there's lots of money in Huntsville and the library reflects it.  It has an art gallery, a movie theatre, a coffee shop, and about 16 computer carrels with the fastest wireless connection I've had so far.  

When one crosses the Missississippi, water rules (riparian rights) change and that was obvious here.  I spotted a beach sign and drove right in only to find out that I would have to pay $10 for the fifteen minute dip I intended to take. 

Every camp site, every trail, every point of interest had a "host" whose main job was to collect money.  No forest rangers here, the forests are maintained by a private company out to make a lot of money.  Never mind.

I slept a solid ten hours in nice cold temperatures. In the morning, another adventure.

This past winter, Tim Meier urged me to read Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams who wrote about the period in the late 1980's when the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge was flooded by the waters of the Great Salt Lake.  The refuge had been around since 1928 and no one thought it would ever come back.  Nature surprised everyone and once again, it is one of the great sanctuaries.

I arrived to find that a tour would take place in half an hour and there was room for me.  While I waited, I bought my own copy of Refuge and Sibley's Birds of Western America.  I had left my copy in Colorado with Betty. 

For three hours a long time birder, three novices and I road in an air conditioned van with an expert.  He knew where we could find all the species.  We saw baby coots (orange while their parents are black), the avocets I came to see, a Swainson's Hawk I had been observing in Utah and could finally identify and so much more.

In the end, I marked  26 species on my checklist, good for a hot Utah day.  Of those, fifteen were new to me.

It was a good day.  Then the thunderstorms hit and my next adventure.