Goodbye Pacific Ocean

Back on the road again. We've got Jessica and the van fixed, or at least they're no longer broken down and immobile. After meeting with a specialist Tuesday in Portland Jessica has been given more drugs and a green light to proceed on our trip. We Left Portland around noon, headed up I-5 to Hwy. 12 just north of Centralia and hit the coast again. We took Hwy. 101 up the Washington coast and found the last beach stop that is actually on the Pacific Ocean and took Juno down to play a little and say her goodbyes to the ocean for a few months. She entertained a small crowd with her fetching abilities of greatly over-sized sticks. Up the coast a ways we stopped at a great place to camp just south of Forks. We met some fun kids who enjoyed playing with Juno in the river and they too were amazed at her fetching abilities of greatly over-sized sticks. We BBQ'd some sausages and corn, listened to some music, played a little cribbage and spent our first night of this trip in the van.

We slept in a bit, had some cereal, packed the van and we were set to go. Again, the van wouldn't start, dead battery. Jessica tracked down the maintenance guy at the campground who was more than happy to help until he saw me and said, "Oh, I see, you send her to ask for help because you know I can't say 'no' to her. That's the oldest trip in the book." He seemed happy to help anyway and share a story or two about Centralia (Jessica's home town). We decided we should hit the northwesterly most point in the U.S. since we were so close, and some day on this trip hope to hit the other three corners, so we set course for Neah Bay, the home of the Makah Indian tribe.

Many long and winding miles later we arrived on the Makah reservation in extremely low visibility due to heavy fog and intermittent showers to be utterly depressed. Not as much by the weather but by the state at which the Native people lived. Small, pre-fab houses, totally run down, falling off their foundations, broken cars, appliances toys, you name it in the yards, totally depressing. We followed the signs to the trail to hike to the actual point and when we reached the parking lot and the trail head the fog was so thick and it was raining so we decided if the van couldn't make it it wasn't worth going. Plus we wanted to get off the reservation and back to our 'nation'. On our way out we stopped at one of the little shacks aforementioned with a sign out front advertising smoked salmon. We're both suckers for smoked salmon so we stopped in and visited with the fellow manning the smoker. He offered samples and we bought a pound of the delicacy and eying the fillets he had ready to smoke I asked him how much a pound. "Oh, how about $5 a pound, that's about what they're selling for down the road. I'll make about $.50 but it gets me out of smoking them." I pointed to the one on top and said I'd take it. $8. Not bad for a whole side of fresh caught coho. And hopefully I was supporting the local tribe and their fishery, not their drinking problem.

On the way out we stopped at the museum for a picture with the totem poles they had and after getting our flip-flopped feet soaked in the foggy grass we returned to the van. It wouldn't start. So I ran through the same old routine, get the jumper cables out, open the battery compartment and wait for someone to drive in and flag them down, ask for help, open their hood, hook us up and start the engine, say our thanks and close things up. We were back on the road and off the reservation. Wanting to figure out the dead battery problem I stopped at what looked like a mechanic in one of the tiny towns on our way back to Hwy 101. It was a body shop but they had a '67 VW bus so they listened to my problems and offered some advice but weren't really able to offer any help but said there was a really good mechanic in Port Angeles just up the road who specialized in Vanagons. We thanked him and took off for Port Angeles. We need gas pretty badly and had to stop before we hit the mechanic. We got a couple gallons and again the van wouldn't start. We were on a hill so we thought we could push start it. We couldn't. About that time another Westfalia van rolled in for gas and we asked him for a jump. He obliged and our next stop was Port Angeles.

We had no trouble finding the shop, perched atop a hill with three Westys out front. I felt like we were in good hands. Mike, the proprietor, met us as we got out of the van and I explained the problems we were having and he said he'd been working on them since 1980 and one of his mechanics, Bud, had been working on them since 1963. I let them have at it. Several hours later, after the shop was supposed to be closed, Mike told me he thought they had isolated the problem but everyone had gone home for the night but he could give us a fresh battery and directions to a great campsite a few mile away and we could be first in line in the morning. We agreed and left for the night. Neither of us had eaten since our morning cereal and we were both a little cranky and dreaming of smoked salmon and our fillet for dinner. We stopped at a Safeway, got some odds and ends and left for camp. Before we found a campsite, we were greeted by the host on his bike, he explained the rules of camp and where we could camp. We found a spot overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca away from most other campers and as we started to set up camp our friendly host came back to give us more information. About the time we finished unpacking we were visited by the camp ranger who checked us in. We met our neighbors and were again visited my the camp host who had more information for us. Ten minutes later the ranger was back to chat, no problems, but we felt like we were being watched. Our neighbors commented on it too. We were having our salmon dinner with our neighbors and the boarder patrol cruised by, what's with this place? We later learned that a huge shipment of marijuana was caught very near our camp a week or two ago coming from Canada so we didn't feel so bad. I guess the hippy-van stigma still holds, I didn't think we looked like smugglers but they're not allowed to profile anymore, right?

Friday morning we were back at the mechanic bright and early, they took the van right in and we took off on our bikes to get the dog some exercise. We rode down to the ferries to British Columbia, got something to eat, looked around for a few minutes before we were too cold and rode back to the shop. Juno got her miles in, probably six or so, and collapsed on the floor in the waiting room, finally. They showed me what was up and how it was fixed and hopefully that will be the end of the dead batteries. We could now get to Seattle. We wrapped up Hwy 101, got to Kingston and boarded the ferry to Edmonds, no problems. We wandered the ferry, the M.V. Spokane, and soon enough we were across Hood Canal. The van started right up and a half hour later we were in the U District in Seattle, warmly greeted by one of Jessica's high school friends, Cadie, who's a student at the Art Institute in Seattle. We quickly asked for a shower, the first in three days, and off to the store to get supplies for dinner. We should be meeting up with some other friends for the night and then headed to Spokane in the morning.