WWOOFing

At 7 a.m. Monday morning Jessica and I were officially WWOOFers, or people who are part of the World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms organization, and when you’re working on a farm everyone calls you a woofer. Bright and early, at least for us, we rode our bikes down the half mile drive from our single-wide to Steve and Mona’s house and the farm. Since it was Monday we were immediately put to work harvesting vegetables for the Gillette CSA. Since it was still somewhat early in the growing season for Wyoming, we were limited to a pound of lettuce, one tomato, a few onions and a handful of snap peas. It took the better part of the morning to pick everything, wash it and package it for the CSA members. Juno, being on lock-down, was tied up and not having a very good time watching the chickens, turkeys and guinea hens run circles around her. When washing and packing was done we broke for lunch and since it was reaching 90 degrees we decided to break for several hours and return to work when it started to cool down. Mona let us take anything we wanted from the garden for our lunch so we loaded up on onions and lettuce.

Back at our trailer we continued to get to know Jake and Carla, we got a little more unpacked and chose the room on the end of the singlewide trailer with an air conditioner. Jessica made a huge salad and we composed a grocery list for Mona when she went into town. Late in the afternoon we went back up to the farm and Mona turned me loose on the chicken house. She wanted me to take the rotting, crooked, falling down, floor-falling-through old farm building and straighten it up, replace the rot, fix the floor and the roof and turn it into a chicken house. The building was also full of old windows, screens and other miscellaneous junk and old animal poop from years gone-by. I surveyed the building, over and over, started jacking it up to try and level out the base a little and it was starting to come apart. I tried to nail it back together where I could but so much of it was rotting that not much was holding. Jessica and I emptied the old building, Steve came down with his bucket loader and we threw a chain around a metal tie-rod holding the building together and Steve fired up the rusty yellow beast and made the old building creek and groan till it was true and plumb again. There might be hope for the old building if we could get a foundation under it I thought.

After talking to Steve about his thoughts for a foundation Tuesday morning I decided it was time to convince Steve and Mona that we’d be better off, and much safer, dismantling the old building and recycling the old lumber and starting over. A little grumbling and back-and-forth conversation and they had turned the corner. The old building was to come down, the nails pulled, the lumber sorted and we’d start from scratch. The building came down with little fanfare, it was a bit frightening at times with the amount of rot and decay in the old building but as the roof came off and the walls came out I gave it a mighty push and the 12’x16’ building fell to the ground. Several days of pulling nails and we were ready to start anew. Among unbuilding and building we spent a lot of time weeding, harvesting, fighting grasshoppers, and doing general farm work over two weeks but Steve came through with his bucket loader, leveled the area and Jake, Carla, Jessica and I had formed a six inch wide foundation for a new 10’x15’ chicken house. Mona brought in 20 bags of concrete for us to mix and make our new foundation with so once our forms were set we started mixing concrete in an old wheel borrow and dumping it into the forms. Now, I’ve never done this before, but I’ve seen it done, so that made me the expert on all of this (I’ve really just done the pretty stuff once a house is up and put together but since I was in charge I needed to look and sound like I knew what I was doing). We got nearly all of the foundation mixed and poured when we ran out of concrete, about three bags short, and the nearest bags of concrete were 60 miles away. I really started to understand why farmers keep three of everything on hand because you never know when you’ll need… that. But concrete wasn’t one of those things you keep on hand… apparently, and we had to stop for the day. Mona was going to town the next day for the CSA and she would pick up the remaining concrete to finish the foundation.

Meanwhile on the farm, we continued to experience hot days and long lunches. One particular hot day and long lunch the four of us thought it would be nice to go up to the bridge in town, about a mile as the river flows, and float down in old tractor inner tubes. I had seen some in a corner of the shop and figured there were plenty of them for all of us to float at the same time. I learned then that on the farm you don’t throw anything away because it might be used to fix, patch, repair or be used in some way or another for something else, sometime on the farm. As I dug through the pile of old inner tubes, trying to fill all of them with air and only one of the dozen or more there holding air that at best we could float as couples if I could get a patch on the most promising tube. I pulled the patch kit out of my bike bag and patched a second tube as best I could. Two of us would be in business. I told Jake, Carla and Jessica of the problem but assured them we could all go, just not at the same time, and we agreed to go in pairs of two. Jessica and I would go first. We quickly changed into our swimsuits, packed a few beers, grabbed Juno’s leash and Jake drove us up to the bridge near town.

We thought it would be an easy entry into the creek, throw the tubes over the guardrail, jump a short barbed wire fence, get on our tubes and start floating. It started out great, we threw our tubes over the guardrail, Juno was ready to go, and as soon as the tubes his the ground a flock of six or so sheep came running from under the bridge. Now, Juno was off her leash (we were out in the middle of no where, why not) and no sooner did the sheep run did Juno find a way under the barbed wire fence to go chase the white fleecy animals. When Juno is chasing there is nothing more important that chasing, no amount of yelling, screaming, calling, anything can get her to stop chasing things running. To make matters worse the sheep were in seven-foot high weeds, I had to jump the barbed wire fence, chase Juno down chasing sheep while wearing swim shorts and flip-flops through weeds over my head. I had no idea where she was, where the sheep were, where they were going or what she would do if she caught up to one. I finally found her, on top of one of the sheep, nearly across the creek, and started yelling and screaming at her. She let it go, stumbled back across the creek and ran off into the tall weeds. As the lamb gathered itself, rose to its feet, and finally crossed the creek I could see what looked like blood coming from its hind end and figured I had just bought someone’s lamb. I furiously called for my dog, fought through the weeds, and stumbled back to the bridge where Jessica was waiting for our fun float down the creek. From her vantage point Jessica hadn’t seen anything. Panting, shaking and itchy as all get-out I got up to Jessica, with no dog in sight, and said we needed to go talk to the people at the closest house. I told Jessica that I thought Juno had gotten one of their sheep and we needed to let them know. All I really knew was that one of their lambs was across the creek and I didn’t think that was a good thing.

In proper creek floating attire I walked up to the nearest farmhouse, knocked on their door and I tried to explain the situation. The lady didn’t seem too concerned, just wondered why one of her lambs would have gone across the creek because apparently they would never, ever, cross the creek. She put her boots on, got on a four-wheeler, and went to look for her lamb. Jessica was still stationed at the bridge, where Jake had let us off, and had Juno by the collar. At least she was done terrorizing some of the local livestock, for the moment it seemed. The lady slowly cruised the small hills across the creek from her small sheep pasture, not seeing the injured lamb, she returned and told us she’d give Mona a call if they found anything amiss. We didn’t feel very good about floating the creek at this point but we were now stranded, with just a few Keystone Lights and one good inner tube and one slowly leaking inner tube from a shoddy patch job and a ‘vicious’ dog to get us back to Mitzel Farm. I decided the best way to get Juno to follow us was to have Jessica hold on to her, I’d float down a ways and Jessica would let her go and she’d come after me. It worked like a charm and Juno was now swimming after me and Jessica was coming in her leaky tube.

Juno had never really swam before, she usually gets in up to her belly and won’t go much further unless thrown in by me. She has some separation anxiety to say the least. The water was no barrier for her to keep close on this trip, she literally swam circles around us. From the bank, circle us a few times, swim back to the bank, shake off, swim back to us. This repeated for the entire trip down the creek, quite a feat for a dog having never swum more than a minute or more at a time. We had a quiet, uneventful float down Clear Creek and arrived back at the farm in just under two hours from when we were dropped at the bridge. I, in turn, shuttled Jake and Carla to the bridge and saw them off for their turn down the creek and when they returned we went back to work. Other than the sheep incident it was a really peaceful, relaxing trip.

The next morning I expected to hear the worst from the neighbors with the lambs. Mona didn’t seem too worried about the ordeal, “These things happen on the farm,” she assured me. Steve wasn’t so positive, “If a farmer sees a dog chasing his animals, he won’t hesitate to shoot them.” Great, now Juno would be shot on sight and from the number of guns in Steve’s gun rack right next to the front door I didn’t dare question him. I’m just glad Juno was able to evade the farmer with the sheep. Well… at this point in our week of farm experience I guess I wasn’t really sure if I was glad she was still alive, she had devoured a guinea hen on day one and less than a week after our arrival she had taken a lamb down in a creek. I suppose I was a little indifferent if she met her match with a .22 while gleefully chasing a domesticated farm animal. The neighbors hadn’t called so we were in the clear at this point anyway.

Our farm work went on as usual, Monday, Wednesday, Friday, harvest in the morning, do something else in the evening, for me that was usually working on the new chicken house unless it rained, and on occasion, rain it did. Being from the northwest we think we’re pretty tough about rain, no one carries an umbrella, we gladly wear our Birkenstocks and socks if rain is in the forecast. In Wyoming, if there are clouds, there’s a high probability of rain and thunder and lightening. And the rain isn’t the northwest mist, it rains, like up to two inches in a hour. I’d like to see the hardcore northwest hippies in their Birks and socks in a Wyoming summer storm. As bad as it may sound, we often hoped for rain so we wouldn’t have to go back to work, the hours were fairly long, the work was physically demanding and when it didn’t rain, which was most of the time, it was hot, even at 9 a.m. and it didn’t really cool down till nearly dark. We had signed up for the adventure so when we went to work we gave it all we had, as best as we knew how, even though we were secretly doing our own little rain dance.

By the end of our second week we had floated the creek twice, seen a real Wyoming rodeo, Juno had killed a guinea hen, severely injured a lamb (the neighbors finally called and were treating it with iodine and penicillin, no need for vets in the Forever West state, Juno had torn up its hind end pretty good but the neighbors were happy we took responsibility for it and told them about the whole thing), we had a foundation poured for the new chicken house and the floor built on the foundation. During the weekend Jessica and I decided we needed a break from the farm and we went into the Bighorn Mountains to camp for a night. We had asked around and the Tongue River was the place to go. We were trying to get the chicken house done so we worked Saturday morning and left for the mountains in the afternoon. It had been a while since we had been in town so we went grocery shopping and wandered in and out of western wear shops in Sheridan (Jessica really wants a pair of cowboy boots now) and finally up to the campground. The campground was little more than a turnaround at the end of the road with an unkempt outhouse and free camping. As usual I made friends with another young couple camping and we spent our night cooking over their campfire, rescuing the ever-falling baby squirrels and playing drinking games till the wee hours of the night.

Sunday morning Jess and I tried to ride the extremely technical trail that lead out of our campsite, which is never a good idea after a late night drinking. The trail was steep, very rocky and very technical. Jessica made it about a mile before calling it quits, she probably walked her bike as much as she rode it and I decided to keep going, being a much stronger rider than she, but I only make it about a mile further than she before I gave into the beast of a trail. We met back up at camp, went for a little hike, I swam across the freezing Tongue River and we headed back to the farm, a little defeated but a little refreshed at the same time.

Our third week at the farm was somewhat unplanned, we had thought we’d stay for only two weeks but I have a really hard time leaving a job unfinished and since we didn’t even have a single wall up on the chicken house we thought it best to stay and at least get it to the point chickens could live in it. Jake and Carla had left for home to visit family and friends so we were on our own to harvest for all of the CSA’s and try and build a chicken house with minimal tools. We normally started at 7 a.m. but that third week I started at 5 a.m. at least once and 6 a.m. several other days to try and get it as done as possible so we could leave by the weekend and get to our next farm in Iowa before they gave up on us. Jessica was a great help and we were almost able to complete the new chicken house and I felt confident in Jake that he could put the finishing touches on it (check out their blog, www.chickenlooper.blogspot.com) and get the chickens roosting and nesting in comfort.

The Thursday before we left Mona had a special treat for us, I had told her that on our trip I wanted to see something born, something slaughtered, I wanted to learn to make bread and I wanted to learn to make cheese. Mona wasn’t big on baking bread or making cheese and all of the calves had been born before we got there so it was time to slaughter a turkey for our last meal on the farm. As we were beginning to put the siding on the chicken house Mona came down to meet us with a rusty hatchet she had ‘just sharpened’, had me put two nails in a board, side-by-side, about an inch apart and had us follow her to the pen where the five turkeys were working to keep the grasshoppers down. Jessica and I gave one another the, “I guess this is it,” look because we didn’t think we would actually slaughter anything. Mona waited outside the pen and ordered us to pick a turkey and bring it over to her. I tried to pass the buck and make Jessica be the one to decide the fate of the birds but she couldn’t do it either. Strangely, it sounds a lot easier to kill your food than it is to actually do it. Jessica said, “I don’t know which one to get.” I pointed at all of them and said, “How about that one?” “Which one?” She replied, pointing to one of them nearest to her. “Yeah, that one.” I reassured her. She squeamishly picked it up by its feet, held it upside down and carried it over to Mona. I could see her eyes welling with tears as the bird took its last look its friends, she sniffled and handed the bird off to Mona who in turn handed her the rusty hatchet. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “You’re going to have to do this.” “What?!?” I thought, I just wanted to SEE an animal slaughtered, I didn’t wanted to be the slaughterer. Mona was holding the turkey down in the grass and pressing its little head between the nails I had put in the board, and the only thing to be decided was who was going to chop its head off and I could tell from looking at Jessica she wasn’t going to do it. I took the hatchet, Mona directed me where to strike it, I took its head in one hand and with the other swung the hatchet down on the neck.

I’d like to say that the head came clean off, one strike. That wasn’t so much the case, the first strike severed something, blood started squirting all over my hand, the turkey started flailing violently in Mona’s death grip, I knew I had to get the head off so I struck again, and again, and again, and again, and again, did I mention the hatchet was rusty? After six or so strikes the head was finally off, the turkey was convulsing in Mona’s arms for what seemed like forever, Jessica was looking on like a deer in the headlights and I was wondering if turkey blood would come out of my clothes. When the headless turkey finally gave up Mona took it up to the washhouse where she had a stockpot waiting with hot water to scorch the bird to help the feathers come out. As we stood around plucking feathers I wondered what Juno would think if she were there see the whole ordeal, she’d probably want me to tie the turkey to my neck and run around for a while to see how it feels.

Fourth of July Feast

The morning of the Fourth of July leaving the Big Horn Mountains it was dark and grey and pouring rain, but we were excited to get to our first farm with dreams of fields full of lettuce, tomatoes, onions, beans, melons, cucumbers, corn and any other vegetable imaginable. I was hoping to see a flock of chickens, a tree lined drive up to an old white farmhouse with a wraparound covered porch and wisteria in full bloom growing up the porch columns and a big old red barn. You know, the idealistic old farm you see in movies.

We reached Sheridan, the closest big town to the farm, and Jessica called the farm to get directions. We were still about an hour away and Mona, the farm owner, asked us if we could pick up some hamburger buns for the bbq that evening. After going through Sheridan and stopping at Safeway we were nearly there, three thousand miles after leaving Portland and nearly three weeks on the road we were almost there. We thought we had left the rain in Oregon, but it was still coming down pretty hard. There weren’t many turns to get to the farm, just sixty miles of rural country road, nothing new to us. At the town of Leiter, which didn’t have so much as a speed zone, we were to turn left at the gravel road, cross the railroad tracks, go over a bridge and when we came to the sign that read, “Slow Down You Sons-A-Bitches,” we would soon cross a cattle guard and their driveway was the first on the right. When we turned down the driveway half of the road was lined with giant cottonwood trees and hay fields, the other side was scrub brush. I was feeling confident now that half of my dream farm was here, an oasis in the brown land east of the last notable mountain range on our map until the east coast. The driveway seemed to go on forever, the tree line stopped, we passed a old farm and some falling down out building that Mona had said were her neighbors, and then passed a single-wide trailer Mona said was about half way to their house. The mud was picking up, the van was having a tough time and was handling like we were in snow. As I tried to steer the van down the straight drive the horn in the van took on a life of its own. I like to honk occasionally as we drive through the country but I wouldn’t do it this close to our destination, Jessica looked at me disapprovingly like I was doing it on purpose, and I looked at her dumbfounded, the van honked a dieing sounding honk, straight out of “Little Miss Sunshine” and we both burst into laughter, the kind of laughter that brings uncontrollable tears. We composed ourselves and I kept the van between the fences and we finally slogged through the mud, leaving deep ruts in the driveway, up to the farmhouse.

Before we were out of the van the screen door opened on the enclosed porch of the simple house and out walked Mona, a mid-50’s lady with short dark hair wearing crocks. She reminded me a lot of my parent’s friends, happy, energetic and very welcoming. As we introduced ourselves we met her dog, a short and friendly black and white boarder collie named Belle and we let Juno out so they could do the doggie-dance. The rain had let up and Mona thought we should see the farm. She walked us through the ankle deep mud to the greenhouse where tomatoes were growing chest tall and putting on tons of green fruit, she pointed out the old shed she wanted me to turn into a chicken house and as soon as she said it Juno took off in a dead sprint like she does when chasing cats in the neighborhood or seagulls at the beach and just as fast chickens started screaming, feathers started flying, I started yelling and tried to run her down with twenty pounds of mud stuck to my shoes. I caught a glimpse of Juno with a black and white speckled bird in her mouth, my yelling turned to screaming and Juno released the bird. My blood pressure and adrenaline were up, to say the least, and I was able to get a hold of my friendly white dog. I’m not sure Mona saw the whole ordeal but she didn’t seem too upset about it. We trudged back up to the house, I tied Juno to the metal railing leading up to the porch and Mona invited us in for fried ham and eggs.

I quickly realized this wasn’t the farm from the movies I had dreamed of but after seeing the place and meeting Mona and Steve I knew we would be in good hands and have a great time while we stayed and worked at Mitzel Farm. Over coffee, fried ham and fried eggs we visited about our trip, their farm, what our daily activities would be and generally got acquainted. We were going to be primarily working with Mona with the rare exception that Steve would need help with the hay operation. Mitzel Farm consists of 420 acres, of which nearly all was hay for their cattle operation. Mona had fenced in 14 acres for gardens across the creek to keep the deer and antelope out and had erected two high-tunnels along with a heated green house and a small tunnel to grow peppers in. Mona and her neighbor Carol serviced 57 CSA’s, or community supported agriculture, where three times a week we would have to pick vegetables, wash them, and make equal bags of produce that would be combined with produce from Carol’s farm and either Mona or Carol would drive them to drop sites in the surrounding towns for people that signed up for the farm fresh organic veggies to pick up. When we weren’t picking, washing or bagging veggies we would be weeding, pruning, spraying organic grasshopper killer, watering or tending to the chickens turkeys or guinea hens and I was in charge of turning an old decrepit farm building into a chicken house to keep the birds out of the harsh Wyoming winter weather.

As we finished eating and were sitting around talking Jake and Carla came up to the house. Jake and Carla are a married 30-year old couple from Utah, leaning on the granola side of the cultural spectrum who had come to Wyoming in early April to spend the planting, growing and harvesting season learning how to run an organic farm with Mona and Steve. Jake and Carla were staying in the singlewide up the driveway and Mona suggested we stay with them. According to Mona they had expressed a desire to have a little more people interaction, I can see why after experiencing the desolation of north-central Wyoming, so we followed them out to the trailer and got the grand tour. Three bedrooms, kitchen, bath and washer and dryer along with Happy and Eli, Jake and Carla’s dogs, and a cat that wouldn’t leave their room. We were so accustomed to sleeping in the van that we weren’t sure we would stay in the trailer but we’d park out there to use the bathroom and kitchen. After getting to know each other for a bit we were given the rest of the tour of the farm, Jake gave us a boat ride across the creek so we could see the outside garden, to the untrained eye it was a weed garden, but we were assured there were veggies in there somewhere. We finished the tour and headed back to the house where Steve was cooking burgers on the grill and Mona was preparing the rest of our Fourth of July feast. We left Juno and Belle to play outside and headed inside.

Burgers, potato salad, chips and beer, a great Fourth of July meal. We sat in the dining room, talked farming, travel, religion, hunting, raising beef cows and the organic farm life for an hour or more before I wanted to check on Juno and throw a Frisbee for her and Belle and I headed outside. Belle is a better behaved version of Juno, she wants to play as much but is much more polite about it and I went to throwing the Frisbee for her. About fifteen minutes later Jessica came out to find me and when she got near she looked down and asked, “So… did Juno do this?” “Do what?” I replied as I threw the Frisbee again. Moving her foot around in the grass, “This…” I backed up, praising Belle for her last catch, to where Jessica was standing, looking upset and I saw the dead bird. “Hmmm…” I said, “I don’t know.” Juno came running up to us and picked up the bird, tore a piece off of it and proceeded to have her Fourth of July feast. My stomach sank, it hit me that my dog had killed one of Mona’s birds. My voice shaking, I sighed, “I guess she did.” “What should we do?” Jessica asked. The first thing that crossed my mind was to hide it and pretend it didn’t happen, I didn’t want to get kicked off the farm before we got a chance to help out, I wanted to be accepted and Juno to be welcomed. These people let us come all the way from Oregon and before we could unpack our dog had killed a part of the farm. “Well… I guess I should tell Steve and Mona and see what they want to do about it.” I told her.

With my head down and shoulders hunched I walked back into the house, “I think I owe you a chicken…” I said to Mona. “What happened?” Steve chimed in. “I think Juno got one of your chickens.” I explained. “I’ll keep her tied up, I didn’t think she’d do it but there’s a dead bird in the lawn. Let me know how to make it right, I’ll pay for the bird and do anything you want to make it up to you. I feel terrible.” I said. “These things happen, don’t worry about it. Just work.” Mona consoled me. She could tell I felt terrible. “I feel like the parent of an irresponsible kid.” I said. Mona and Steve then told me about Belle and the night she killed four chickens a friend had given them. Steve said that he tied one of the birds to her neck and left it there for four or five days until it stunk and she was so sick of it that she never went near another bird again. “If you want to cure her that’s what you have to do.” Steve told me. I wanted to cure her, I knew it wasn’t her fault she killed it, it was mine, she was just acting on her instincts and I neglected to keep her from them and apparently the best way to train her was to tie this dead speckled bird around her neck.

I walked out of the house, down to the shop looking for something to tie the thing to her neck with and found a length of stiff wire. I picked it up and walked back to the house, found Jessica with Juno and the bird, jammed the wire through the carcass, and called Juno to me. She sulked up to me, head down and tail between her legs and sat at my feet in front of the bird on the wire. I threaded the wire through her collar, coiled it a few times, and Juno was now attached to her kill. She stumbled around a bit with this four pound feathered, bloody mess hanging between her legs. Jake and Carla had ridden their bikes back to the trailer so Jessica and I got on our bikes and headed back to meet them. Juno, usually leading the way, was lagging behind, unable to run she dropped out of sight by the time we reached the trailer. She soon showed up without the bird and the wire stuck under one of her front legs. I sighed, and knew I had to go find the bird and reattach it to Juno. I rode back down the driveway and found it, called Juno who reluctantly came because she knew what was in store, threaded the bird back onto the wire and Juno was again attached. She made it back to the trailer and it was nearly dark, Jessica and I decided to sleep in the van and unpack the following day. There was no way Juno was going to get to sleep in her cushy spot in the van so I tied her up outside the van and after showering Jessica and I went to bed.

We woke up with the sun and heat early, Mona wanted us up at the farm at 7 am to pick veggies for the CSA, which wasn’t a problem being up before 6, and opened the van door to check on Juno who had been surprisingly quiet over the night. As soon as I opened the door I could tell something wasn’t right, Juno was still there but there was little more than a wire around her neck and a pile of feathers on the ground. She ate the whole bird. Bones, feet, guts, everything. Surveying the site and kicking the feathers I found the only remaining piece of the bird, the head and about an inch and a half of the neck. Thinking she could still learn a lesson I got some thin rope out of the van, picked up the head and tied it to her collar. Looks like Juno won this round, but I was going to make sure there wouldn’t be a round two.

The Road to New Friends

Now in Wyoming, the road out of Yellowstone took us back into Montana where we stopped at the first town, Cooke City, the power was out in the entire town so we couldn’t get food or gas. We continued on, the road veered back into Wyoming and there were lots of camping opportunities. The first campground we pulled into was really nice but the only open spots were right next to the campground host so we decided to move on and try to find a place we could let the dog run around. At around 9,000’ elevation we came across a campground surrounding a glacial lake with lots of open spots. We picked a site at the top of the campground, away from most of the other sites so we could let Juno run. There was a trailhead and a lake, we thought we could swim in the morning, go for a bike ride around the lake and head to our first farm the next day. We met a really nice older couple who had driven over the nearly 11,000’ Beartooth Pass from nearby Red Lodge, Montana. We visited for an hour or so, tried to answer the, “What are you going to do with your anthropology degree?” question, and talked of travel, organic farming, photography, Enron, construction and life. They told us they had tried three campgrounds since leaving their home and this was the first that had any open spots because of the Fourth of July holiday weekend. I guess we got lucky. They had two beagles, neither of which got along with Juno but the neighbors, Jack and Lavonne, didn’t seem to mind her running free.

In the morning Jessica made breakfast while I explored the trail on my bike to find that there was a roaring glacial river about a quarter mile down the trail you had to cross to continue so the bike ride was quickly crossed off the list of activities. I then took Juno to the boat launch, took off my flip-flops and walked in. Before I got my ankles wet my toes were numb. This was easily the coldest lake I’ve ever been in. Cross that activity off. I got back to camp to a nice breakfast and had to break the bad news about the trail and the lake. Neither of these downers dampened our spirits and we decided to stay another night because of the sheer beauty of the location and the possibility of not being able to find another place to camp. We could also use a day off after going and going and going for nearly two weeks. We played lots of cards, I mercilessly beat Jessica at cribbage and Uno all day. Our camp neighbors, Jack and Lavonne, visited some more and invited us to come to their house Saturday after we left camp to shower and share a meal.

Saturday morning Jack gave us directions and a map to their house in Red Lodge and said to take our time going over Beartooth Pass and stop in whenever we wanted. I assured him that the van wouldn’t have a problem taking its time climbing to nearly the height of the peak of Mt. Hood, and we would see them later in the day. Sure enough, the thin air, loaded van and steep climb kept the van at a steady 25 mph for most of the climb despite my best efforts to push it faster, it kept to its pace and made it over the pass intact. The Beartooth Highway is one of the most stunning roads I’ve ever been on and near the top there are plenty of places to pull off and take in the 360-degree view of mountains in every direction. The descent wasn’t much faster with all of the switchbacks but we made it down in one piece. We nearly made it into Red Lodge’s Fourth of July parade as we went through town. I was hoping for something like the recent Subaru commercial but we were about a half hour early. We still felt like we were a little on display as people were already lining the quaint, old and usually quiet downtown streets. After stocking back up at the local grocery store we found Jack and Lavonne’s geodesic dome house a mile or so out of town. It was kind of hard to miss, being the only geodesic dome house around. Lavonne welcomed us in, gave us the tour of the house the two of them built by themselves on their weekends from 1994 to 2003. Jack, it turns out, is pretty handy with a saw, hammer and chisel and Lavonne is pretty handy too, in her own right. Their house was truly one of a kind, Jack had carved everything in their house, nearly every piece of molding, column, banister, exposed beam or rafter, stair riser, everything, everywhere. Its no wonder it took them nine years to finish it. Coming from a custom cabinet shop, I was very impressed to say the least.

The carvings and other details weren’t the best part of the house though, they had a sauna out back. After the tour they asked if we would like to use the sauna before we showered. “Sure.” We said in unison, why not get the full-meal-deal. They said it would be about a half hour for it to warm up so we talked more while we waited. I impressed them with my juggling skills, Jack showed me his woodworking shop, Lavonne showed Jessica her art studio, Juno chased Lucy and Dorothy the Beagles around until Dorothy snapped and Juno left them alone… for a while. The sauna was ready and Lavonne gave us each a ‘sauna’ towel. “We really don’t need to use two towels,” I said, trying not to inconvenience them any further with more laundry. “Well, you don’t want to shower with all that sweat on your towel, its fine.” Lavonne assured us. Boy are we glad we had two towels, we got in the sauna and the thermometer was reading 150 degrees and the first thing I did having never really been in a sauna is pour two or three ladles of water on the rocks. I understand the term, “Feels like a sauna in here” now, because man did it ever feel like a sauna in here. Instantly we were drenched in sweat and there was no end in sight, I’ve never sweated that much in my life and I was only in there for fifteen minutes. We decided against showering together but neither one of us wanted to stay in the sauna much longer. Since I shower faster than Jessica we decided I should go first and Jessica would spend a little more time in and out of the sauna. I got her a Dr. Pepper from the van and finally got to shower and shave, the first shower in three days and the first shave for nearly a week. I went back out to the sauna hoping to find Jessica still alive, she was, probably a few pounds lighter too. She came inside and showered and we were treated to a wonderful late lunch and after exchanging addresses Lavonne sent us on our way with some Diet Coke, my favorite.

After leaving Jack and Lavonne’s we thought we should head for Mitzel Farm in Leiter, Wyoming, our first organic farm stop. We didn’t realize it was after 4 pm when we left so we had to scour the maps once again to find somewhere to camp. We didn’t really need to eat again for the day so we thought we could make it to the Bighorn Mountains in Wyoming where several camping opportunities dotted our map. We traveled down to Cody, home of the Buffalo Bill museum, which was closed by the time we got there, and then east to the Bighorns. We had another big climb in the van at a steady 30 mph and as the sun started to fade we found one of the camp dots from the map. This was about the roughest campsite we had visited so far but there was plenty of firewood available and lots of empty spots. We pulled in next to a young couple with a dog, popped the camper top and went to meet the neighbors in the twilight. They were both pharmacists, in their late 20’s, from nearby Indian reservations, one from the Crow and the other from the Cheyenne. We had lots of good conversation about the problems facing the Native populations, the problems on the reservations and how being a white person you’re perceived in the reservation, even when you’re there to help them. Jessica recently had a course in Native North Americans and another in Culture, Illness and Healing so she had lots of educated questions to which they were more than happy to try and shed light on and offer their personal experiences dealing with the tribes as an outsider. They were also very helpful in advising Jessica on her medications, of which she is taking over twenty pills a day.

When it was too dark to find our way back we finally stumbled through the thigh deep grass back to the van and called it a night. With few trees around we were woken early by the Wyoming sun and knowing we were only hours from our first farm we were too excited to stay around much longer. We left before our neighbors were up and headed out over our last major mountain pass in the West.

So far on this trip I really feel like there are some great people out there. Living in Centralia I found this to be true with how welcoming and inviting people were but in the big cities I feel like people are a little more reserved and skeptical, thinking others are out to take advantage of them. That's not to say that I haven't met a ton of great people in Portland or Eugene or Seattle, most of my best friends and nearly all of my family lives in or around these cities but I don't feel like the general public is quite as friendly as the small town folks. I hope some of the people we’ve met will keep in contact and when they visit Oregon return the favor or at least I’ll take a traveler or two in if no one ever makes it out to wherever I end up.

Our Great National Parks

The National Park system is not what we were expecting as we traveled through Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks. There are tons of people who stop at the thought of seeing wildlife while everyone behind them is slamming on their brakes (the whole break light issue didn’t seem to be a problem, probably because we were more interested in getting out of the parks than seeing the ‘wildlife’), dogs literally aren’t allowed out of campgrounds or off of paved roads and the scenery and wildlife is equally spectacular outside of the parks. Needless to say we didn’t spend more time than we had to in either Glacier or Yellowstone.

After leaving our hospitable northern Idahoan, we continued along Hwy 2 and into Montana, another state, another high-five and a new time zone. This is the first time Jessica has been out of the Pacific Time zone in the continental United States and every mile east is one mile further than she has traveled in her 21 years. Soon after crossing into Montana I spotted a ranger station and I thought we should see if we could get any local information on camping in Glacier or nearby or any other interesting sights to see in Big Sky Country. I’ve never understood is why they call it Big Sky Country, the sky doesn’t look any bigger in Montana than any other state I’ve ever been to. We stopped in and picked up lots of free Smokey the Bear paraphernalia, a state map with lots of places to camp across the state and some brochures of some interesting things to see before we hit the Park.

About thirty miles after the ‘Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires’ station we saw the sign to the Swinging Bridge over the Kootenai River. “Why not?” we reasoned, we were up early and making decent time, “Could be interesting.” I convinced Jessica. We were into our first major climb in the van, too, so I thought it would be good to let her cool down for a bit and us too after Chris, our Spokane mechanic, said it would be a good idea to keep the heat on in the van to help keep the engine temperature down. What a great idea if the outside temperature is below freezing but when it’s over 80 degrees and you have the heat on high and the fan blowing full blast it gets a little sticky, especially when your climbing the foothills of the northern Rocky Mountains at a blistering 30 mph. Down the trail, trying to get our shorts unstuck from our legs due to the sweat, we crossed some railroad tracks on a footbridge that we had to climb three stories of metal stairs to get to and one of the most entertaining dog walking styles I’ve ever seen Juno take on the metal grates of the stairs, down some more trails and we could see the Kootenai River. Juno made her own trail down to the aqua blue water while Jessica and I found the actual trail to a beautiful rocky beach. We took a few pictures, Juno cooled down in the river and I spotted the infamous Swinging Bridge about a half-mile down the river. It’s infamous because as our brochure pointed out the movie ‘The River Wild’ with Kevin Bacon and Meryl Streep was filmed there.

We continued down the trail and found the bridge, climbed the twenty feet or so to the span, and I led the way. Now, it’s called the Swinging Bridge, so I figured I’d find out why. Jessica and Juno were not quite as curious and I could tell this by the profanities Jessica was yelling at me and the way Juno was hunkered down, practically belly crawling her way across as I jumped on the three rows of 2x8’s that lined the surface. We all made it safely across and wandered around the other side of the river, took a few more photos and headed back for the van. I gave the bridge another good bouncing and Jessica gave me a few more profanities. We made it back to the van and took off for Glacier National Park.

At the entrance to the park we were greeted by a friendly older lady in her official parks service khaki shirt and full brimmed hat who was waiting to collect our money for the opportunity to drive very slowly for several hours and be harassed about having a dog. America doesn’t seem so free with the number of rules and fees imposed at this ‘National Treasure”. We paid $80 for a year pass to all of the National Parks in the country, thinking it would be a good thing to have since we’re planning on seeing lots of these great places. The nice grey-haired lady gave us a map and some other information, commented on the van and said, “My husband and I have one we bought a few years ago.” “They’re great, aren’t they?” I responded. “I think its been with the mechanic more than with us so far.” She replied. I smiled and said, “They can do that, but they’re lots of fun when they work.” She smiled and told us to enjoy the park.

I had been telling Jessica how scary the road to the top is, how narrow it is and how steep it is looking down the mountain side and you have to pass big motor homes and how the guard rail is a joke, about 18 inches of stone between you and a 4000 foot drop. Once we were on the Going to the Sun Road it really wasn’t as terrifying as I remember, maybe because we’ve been on some pretty crazy roads in Oregon and California or maybe because I didn’t have my brother-in-law John white knuckling the door of the car as it snowed on us the first time I made the drive. We were also constantly behind really slow drivers, if I can catch another vehicle on a climb in the van I can justify calling them really slow, and we had to stop for construction several times. Apparently the snow and ice the park gets for seven or more months a year takes a little toll the road. We stopped at the top, Logan Pass, Juno ate some snow out of one of the ten-foot high snow banks and we started to walk up to the visitor center when we saw our first ‘No Dogs Past This Point’ sign. Well, I guess they’re not getting our money, I thought and we got back in the van to head down to find some camping east of the continental divide in the park. More construction and waiting to be pilot car’d through, we got to the bottom and saw our first camp site.

We pulled in and noticed it was nearly evening, if we stopped and stayed we might finally have a chance to eat before 9 pm. We went into the lodge/store/gift shop to try and find a sticker to decorate the Rocket Box atop the van. After picking one we overheard the tourist ahead of us at the checkout asking for shower tokens. Jessica’s ears perked up and inquired when it was our turn in line. “$2.50 for 8 minutes, they’re out back.” Seeing as she hadn’t showered since Spokane she was ready and we didn’t know when our next opportunity would be so she bought one for each of us. We drove around the parking lot to the campsite and were greeted by the camp host. After rattling off a myriad of rules, several of which referred to the dog and one in particular that really bothered me, no collecting fire wood, “It’s a National Park and everything in it is protected, we have fire wood for sale but it’s a little pricy.” She said, “It’s $20 for the night and there’s only a few spots left.” We said we would take a look around. We drove the loop, saw the few remaining spots and decided we’d shower and head to the next camp ground on the map.

Pulling around back of the store we found the showers, well, one shower for the guys and one shower for the girls. Needless to say with a full campground and few showers there was a line for both. We both waited for nearly a half hour to get our eight minutes of hot water in a three by three foot shower and hurried down to the next campground. Now at least we’re clean but getting a little cranky because we haven’t eaten anything substantial since Idaho the next campground was equally as full but mostly RV’s, no decent spots left, few trees, the same restrictions and this one was $22 a night. We made a quick loop and left the park. Looking at the maps there were no other camping opportunities for 60 miles or so and I proposed we camp along the road somewhere quiet and leave early. Jessica isn’t a big fan of the idea but we’re both so turned off by our glorious National Park that she begrudgingly agrees. A few miles out of the park there’s a sign for a campground. I pass it and Jessica says, “What are you doing?” Not up for an argument I turn the van around, she checks the map and sees the spot, down a dirt road for five miles and back into Glacier. A few bumpy miles in there are a dozen or more wild horses in the road, they’re moving about the speed of traffic the rest of the park tourists were going but soon headed into the open prairie, another mile and more horses. We smile at each other, Juno is going crazy in the back, we cross a cattle guard and we’re back in the Park. There’s only a handful of campsites, most of which are vacant and it’s in the trees, near a creek and there’s no Nazi Park Rangers to hassle us. We have our pick of sites, back in to one, start collecting half burned fire wood from the other vacant sites, start a fire, pop the top on the van and search for what to make for dinner.

I open the van’s refrigerator, which is operating flawlessly, and quickly spot our ground elk meet from Jill. “How do elk burgers sound?” I ask Jessica. “We better eat it before it goes bad.” She gives me a worried look, “I’ve never had elk.” She confesses, “What do we do with it?” “It’s just like beef, but leaner. I’ve never had it either but I’ve heard it’s good. Do you want to make the burgers and I’ll get the bbq ready? I’m starving.” I say. Jessica tears into the package, adds some seasoning, and starts turning out patties. She makes me the biggest burger I’ve maybe ever eaten, I fire up the bbq and throw them on. They cook great, smell great, and were very tasty. We even have two left over for lunch. Thanks Jill.

As we finish dinner two couples pull in with Florida license plates and camp next to us. The first thing they do is let their dogs out and then proceed to chop down a tree for firewood. Apparently they haven’t seen the National Park bylaws but at least we don’t feel so bad about letting Juno off her leash to play. They aren’t very social so we play some cards by ourselves and get to bed under a brilliant forest canopy with millions of stars shining through. Maybe the National Parks aren’t so bad.

The sun wakes us early, we make huckleberry pancakes, thanks again Jill, and decide to take a little hike into the park before we head down to Yellowstone. With Juno off her leash we walk through the campground to the trailhead. Juno takes off to chase something in the prairie grass and we run into one of Glacier’s finest in her full brimmed hat. “Is that your dog?” She asks, looking at the white furry with her head now buried in a hole after a mighty pounce. “Oh, yeah, I’ll put her leash on.” I respond. Foiled again. The Park Ranger explains that dog’s aren’t welcome on the park trails, yadda, yadda, yadda, they chase the wildlife, yadda, yadda, yadda, endanger the wild dogs, yadda, yadda, yadda, she goes on. “Well, I guess we’ll be leaving then.” I tell her. I understand rules, I just don’t agree with these particular rules, I show and vent a little of my frustration and Ms. Park Ranger doesn’t seem to be too disappointed that we’re leaving. Walking back to the van I say to Jessica, “At least we get an early start.”

Back down the dirt road to the highway we spot the wild horses from the evening before grazing in the open prairie and I stop to take some pictures. Lots of very attractive equines, unafraid of me I get close enough to make some nice pictures with my point-and-shoot of the horses with the towering Rocky Mountains in the background. We hit the highway and don’t look back. We both feel a sense of relief leaving the highly restricted area and on our way to our next highly restricted area, Yellowstone National Park.

Many more miniscule towns south down the old highways of Montana. We don’t make many stops but we’re not making the kind of time we had hoped and we’re leery of trying to camp, late, in Yellowstone after our experience in Glacier so we search the map for an area to camp north of the next park. About fifty miles out of Yellowstone there are a number of campsites, we pick one down another gravel road, this time maybe seven miles or so long, and find a riverside spot to stay at. It’s been raining much of the day and after leaving the highway we think we’ve left the rain. The road and the campsite are dry, the river is very swollen though and has actually overtaken a few of the nearby campsites. We debate sleeping on the upper bunk of the van because if it rains over night the canvas top will get soaked and it takes a while in the sun to dry it out. We play it safe and it’s a good thing we do. Sometime in the middle of the night the skies open up, God goes bowling and we’re both shaken awake by the booming thunder and overly frequent lightning strikes. Rain, hail, thunder, lightning, nothing like a good nights sleep camping. An impressive show for over an hour, we finally get back to sleep. We found out later that in Billings, the nearest major city, baseball sided hail was reported to have done a considerable amount of damage to cars and houses. With the bear warning posters and signs everywhere we had everything stuffed in the van so as not to attract any so there was nothing left out and nothing to have to dry in the morning, have I said how nice it is to have the van? At least when it’s running? We slog through the mud to the outhouse, have a few granola bars and leave early again.

Down the road from the campground we noticed Chico Hot Springs on our map. Intrigued, I lobbied to check it out. Maybe we could find a place to hop in and clean off I thought. Arriving at the destination on the map we found a very chic resort, “Maybe they can tell us where to find the hot springs.” I told Jessica. Feeling out of place parking amongst all of the luxury automobiles, we walked into the resort and to the front counter. “Can I help you?” The lady behind the counter asked. “We might be in the wrong place,” I confessed, “but is there a hot spring around here?” “Yes, we have a soaking pool for guests that’s fed by the springs.” “Oh,” disappointed sounding, we obviously couldn’t afford to be guests here if we wanted to keep traveling, “Is there somewhere the general public can go?” “You can buy a day pass and use the pool.” She informs us. Hesitantly I ask how much for a day pass. “$6.50 per adult.” She says. Well, it’s more than the showers at Glacier but we get to play in the pool for a while and shower too. We buy our passes, go back to the van to get out shower stuff and suits and head to the pool. Trying hard to look like we belong there amongst all of the fat old rich ladies floating in the 100-degree plus geothermal heated pool is difficult but as the water aerobics class starts I decide to join in. The ladies seem amused, Jessica seems mortified and pretends like she doesn’t know me, slowly moving away as I try and convince her to join in the workout. Thunder and lightning ended the class and we were all ordered out of the pool. It was probably time anyway as our fingers and toes were starting to look like the raisins in the van. We hit the locker rooms, showered, and hit the road again.

After our Glacier experience we decide we’re going to see Yellowstone from the van and get out of the park. We might as well go, we paid $80 for our annual park pass and it’s a long way around at this point, maybe we’ll even see some wildlife we reason. At the park entrance we get more maps and information, choose our route and head in for what we think will be a few hour drive. We didn’t anticipate the traffic… Summer’s in full swing apparently and everyone acts as though they’ve never see anything furry with four legs. It seems every few miles there’s a traffic jam for people to stop and gape at a pair of bison, a coyote, black bears, and one especially irritating stop for a grizzly bear and two cubs. Normally I’d be excited to see such a site, out in their wild habitat, but the sixty or so cars, parked in the road with every yahoo hanging out their windows to take pictures jaded my experience. We sat for nearly twenty minutes, on an incline, which the van doesn’t like because of it’s manual transmission and lack of an operable emergency break, waiting for these bears to exit our thurofare so we can keep moving. Jessica decided to join the yahoos, hanging out the van’s window to catch a glimpse Smokey, in real life. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. The bear and it’s cubs finally crossed the highway and retreated into the woods to the disappointment of those close enough to see them and to the delight of the string of cars backed up a quarter mile behind us. Once free of the rush-hour like traffic jam we couldn’t get out of the park fast enough. The eastern part of the park was much nicer, far fewer people and we nearly doubled the 35 mph speed limit getting out.

Northern Idaho Hospitality

Leaving Spokane late in the afternoon we figured we’d get a little way into Idaho and camp for the night and make it to Glacier National Park bright and early Tuesday morning. We said our thankful goodbyes to Josh and left Spokane on Hwy 2 headed for northern Idaho. The evening drive was quite peaceful, the van was working like it hadn’t for quite some time but it was indeed getting late. We high-fived as we crossed the boarder into Idaho, our third state and our first landlocked state. After more small towns to slow down through we hit the tourist trap of Sandpoint, ID, I quickly realized I wanted nothing to do with this town and we continued north on Hwy 2.

About a half hour north of Sandpoint we pulled into a gas station looking for some local advice on camping in the area. The friendly attendant looked a little confused and said, “Sandpoint has a lot of great camping.” We could see that by the hundreds of people, finally out of their motor homes, wandering aimlessly through the town. “We were looking for something up north.” We explained. The clerk said she had some maps of the area and would be right back. As we stared at each other waiting for the clerk a very friendly lady, salt and pepper hair, probably mid 50’s, thin and tall wearing shorts and a t-shirt, came up to the counter looking for gas so we posed the question to her since we had the clerk running errands for us. “There are lots of great places around Sandpoint, I used to live there by the lake. Let me draw you a map.” She said. As this lady was drawing a map the clerk came back with some tourist maps of Sandpoint, these ladies obviously didn’t catch our anti-Sandpoint vibe. I figured we’d thank the two of them after our map was drawn and we’d head out on our own. After we had a chicken-scratch map of us going the wrong direction the lady waiting for gas finally asked us where we were going. “We want to get to Glacier tomorrow.” I said. “Oh.” She replied, “This is the wrong direction then…” Looking puzzled at her map, “Do you just want to stay with me tonight? I live up the road a little bit. I can make you dinner and I have a little bunkhouse you can stay in. You can shower too.”

Wide-eyed, we looked at each other, “Sure!” I exclaimed. She looked as happy to have company as we did to have a free place to stay and someone to feed us. We finally introduced ourselves, her name is Jill, she lives in Naples, Idaho and she has a rather large male German Shepard named Shep who she assured us would be more than happy to keep Juno company. Jill was so excited she was about to leave the gas station without getting gas, I reminded her that she came in for something as she was starting to tell us all about Naples, its little tavern, “It’s a hick-bar, you know, lots of good-ol’-boys. Rednecks.” She said half proud her town had a bar but looking at us half embarrassed because she could tell we wouldn’t fit in. “We have a general store, you know, in case you need any supplies before you get to Glacier.” She went on. “When I get home from work I take Shep out for a walk to the creek, he likes to chase rocks. It’s a great place to take a dog, your dog will love it, we can go when we get there.” Jill finished filling her gas tank and we said we’d follow her to Naples. “I’m going to take you the long way… through town because some people get confused by the back way.” She said. I was thinking, “If we’re following you, how are we going to get confused?” But I said “Ok.” And we left for Naples.

Jill overestimated the speed of the van as we headed north following her in her old red Subaru. I gave the van all it could handle till Jill finally realized how far back we were and she slowed down for us. We made the left hand turn off of Hwy 2 into Naples, turned right to go through downtown Naples to see the hick-bar which looked the part with its NASCAR beer advertisements plastering the front, the barn turned general store where we could get supplies (the gas station where we met Jill probably had more ‘supplies’ than the general store). Every one of the landmarks Jill had told us about prior to getting to Naples she made sure to stop in the middle of the street in front of, roll her window down, stick her arm out and bend it over the top her Subaru to point at and yell out the window what it was. I, in turn, would stick my head out the window and give her a “Great!” coupled with a head nod. Jessica and I both know how to read, we really didn’t need Jill to point every downtown building out but it was obvious she was proud of her small town and happy to have someone new to show around.

At the end of town, about a block from the beginning of town, we turned left and crossed the railroad tracks, hit the end of the pavement and followed Jill for a few miles through forests and fields, stopped twice to point out local attractions out her window, “Great!” I said after each stop. We finally turned off the main gravel road into her “subdivision”, continued on a gravel road, quickly turned into the overgrown pine trees flanking her driveway and about 200 yards later we were at Jill’s house. The first thing I noticed was a huge German Shepard barking intimidatingly, this must be Shep, the guard dog of a single woman living in the woods. Jill let Shep out, I let Juno out, Shep towered over Juno, easily three times her size and they went to playing. Shep was obviously as happy to have company as Jill. After watching the doggie dance both Jessica and I were covered, head to toe, in mosquitoes. We were both in full assault, dancing around, slapping our bare legs and arms, Jill could see we were uncomfortable and ran inside to get repellant. I can’t remember ever being swarmed so fast. After we hosed each other down in bug spray Juno came running up to me, batting her muzzle with her paw, I looked down to find the most engorged mosquito I’ve ever seen in my life. I swatted it and it exploded leaving a bloodstain on her white fur. The dogs weren’t even safe.

Jill gave us the 30-second tour, not being brief, her place was just that small, a one-bedroom, one bathroom house with a tiny kitchen, and a one-room guesthouse with a single bed and wood stove. “The bed’s not big so you guy’s will have to cuddle.” She told us. “Well, you want to walk down to the creek with me?” She asked, “We can visit with my brother too if you want. He lives on the way. He’ll offer you a beer and a joint if you wanna smoke. You’re from Eugene, right? Doesn’t everyone smoke from there?” What is it about Eugene? I thought. Not everyone from Eugene smokes pot and not everyone that went to school there smokes pot. Sure, most people in school try it but not everyone graduates with a hemp necklace and pot leaf tattoo on their shoulder. The five of us walked about a mile down to the creek and Jill proceeded to throw rocks for Shep to chase, Juno wanted in on the action but the water was a little too deep for her so she ran around the bank, barking at us, then at Shep, then at us and back at Shep. I miss having a quiet dog sometimes. Twenty minutes or so of this and Jill said we should go meet her brother.

About half way between the creek and Jill’s house her brother, Kim, lived. He had a much bigger house than Jill with a two-car garage and had a beagle tied up out front that barked incessantly. I’m guessing Kim would like to have a quieter dog too but he just chased it around with a broken piece of a cedar stake, swatting at him when he got too loud or rambunctious. First impressions are what they are, and ours with Kim was something else. He was obviously once a thin man but as thin men, who like to drink a lot of beer and smoke a little pot, get over the years, Kim had developed the belly of octomom with chicken legs. Both of these features made more prominent with his cut-off jean shorts and button-down plaid shirt he had cut the sleeves off and the bottom off of so his octomom-belly could hang below. Kim had salt-and-pepper hair like his sister but I’m guessing he cut it himself. He introduced himself, shook hands with us, and looked at Jill as to what to do (he obviously wasn’t used to getting company). Jill motioned to offer us a beer, “Oh, let me get you a beer.” Kim said as he shuffled back inside to get us a beer. He soon returned with two cans of Keystone Light and one poured in a frosted mug for himself. Kim ordered me around to get wooden stools for everyone to sit on. We enjoyed our beers, shared stories of traveling, life, what Jessica was going to do with her new anthropology degree and the local wildlife like the moose that chased Kim through his yard and back into his house.

Kim’s neighbor came over to meet us, an early thirties wilderness schoolteacher who regaled us with the story of the day. Two of his students had eaten mushrooms thinking they were psychedelic but learned the painful truth about wild mushrooms as they were life-flighted to a nearby major hospital with life-threatening complications. Turns out most of the kids that are sent to this particular wilderness school are troubled kids with very affluent parents, $10,000 or $12,000 a month for school affluent. Most of the kids were into drugs, alcohol and/or general bedlam and the parents choose this school over military school.

Jill checked her watch and said she had to get back to the house to check on the chicken quarters she had started before we walked down to the creek. We said we’d join her and thanked Kim for the beer and the stories. Back at Jill’s humble abode she pulled the chicken out of the oven, Jessica helped make a salad and we had a pretty decent dinner. Jill broke out the ice cream for desert, a rarity for her and shared with her company. We shared more stories with Jill while Juno and Shep continued to play into the darkness outside. It was getting late and Jill had to work the next morning so she showed us back to the bunk house, upon second look we decided we would just sleep in the van and not mess up her place. The van was full of mosquitoes and we spent about a half hour trying to kill as many of them as possible before we finally fell asleep.

We awoke around 6:30 the following morning, Jill was already awake, and offered her shower. I took her up on it knowing we wouldn’t see another for several days and Jessica decided against it. Jill had to get to work and we wanted to make up for our last few days of van mishaps but before we left Jill pulled from her freezer a small bag of huckleberries and about two pounds of ground elk meat and wouldn’t let us leave without them. We didn’t quite know what to do with them but I was pretty sure we could make use of both of them. We thanked her profusely for being so kind and taking a couple of kids in for a night and being so nice. “Just remember the Northern Idaho hospitality.” I was pretty sure two-pounds of elk meat would keep me remembering.

West-FAIL-a

Zack and his fiancé Rachel came to have dinner with us and Cadie at her place in the U District in Seattle Friday night. Zach is an old friend from Centralia who worked with Jessica at Arby’s and after seeing me day in and day out looking for free food became a good friend of mine lending a hand on projects around my Centralia house and spending a few weekends at the mountains and the beach in Oregon. It was great to catch up with everyone, Zach is studying engineering at Seattle University and has been selected for flight school through the ROTC program at school. A long way from assistant manager at Arby’s to say the least. After dinner Cadie, Jessica and I wandered the Ave looking for a place to get a drink and hang out. The Ave is the main drag outside the University of Washington, full of bars and late night eateries, pretty standard college fair. I was proudly displaying my University of Oregon t-shirt, mostly because it was clean and on the top of my bag, but it felt right to wear it anyway and I’m always down to give any ill-tempered Husky-believer a dose of “Football?, keep talkin’, you can watch us at the Rose Bowl again next year.” But with school out for the summer I wasn’t looked at twice.

We left Seattle fairly early Saturday morning with the daunting task of driving across Washington all the way to Spokane in one day. We’ve been trying to stay off the major interstates so Hwy 2 seemed the best alternative. The van isn’t the fastest vehicle on the road and I’m tired of all the dirty looks on the interstate system, plus, as the cab driver in my dad’s favorite Thanksgiving movie, Planes, Trains and Automobiles says, “There’s nothing on the interstate but interstate.” The ‘off-the-beaten-path’ roads add a real sense of America, without a McDonald’s every 20 miles and lots of fruit stands I don’t think you can beat America’s back roads. We wound through small town after small town, Leavenworth, the tourist trap trying to be the Swiss Alps in central Washington, Wenatchee, Coulee City (near the Grand Coulee Dam which I didn’t even know was in Washington till then) and countless others. Around Coulee City we had to stop for gas. After getting gas, guess what… the van was dead. No power… again. Jessica did her usual gal in distress routine while I readied for a jump-start. We were back on the road to Spokane and we couldn’t stop till we got there because the battery wasn’t charging again.

As luck would have it we made it to Jessica’s cousin’s house without a hitch. As soon as we stopped I tried to start the van again but the battery was so dead that it wouldn’t even turn the engine at all. Well, now its Saturday evening, there won’t be a mechanic open till Monday so it looks like Josh is going to be hosting us for two days. His weekends are Sunday/Monday so he was going to be seeing a lot of us. He understood the issue and made us feel at home. It was also nice to be stuck some place we could wash our clothes and shower, something I knew we would soon miss once we left our home states.

Sunday was mostly spent hanging out and researching VW mechanics. We walked Juno to park nearby that had somewhat of a water park and played around there for a while. Seeing as Josh was keeping us for an extra night we felt like we should make dinner so we walked to the nearby Safeway to pick something up. We had to walk by a Wal-Mart on our way back and in doing so we passed their garden center. I turned to Jessica and said, “You think we should get Josh a tomato plant for his back yard.” Thinking we were on our organic farming mission for the summer Jessica replied, “If you want.” Not the most resounding confirmation but I thought why not, anyone can grow tomatoes. Upon checkout it hit me that I was buying a tomato plant at Wal-Mart, probably shipped from Arkansas, I didn’t know if it would make the half-mile walk back home, let alone make it in the Spokane summer heat but it was the thought that counts.

Monday morning I was ready to go, I called the last mechanic, Mike, from Port Angeles to pick his brain and after finding what I thought would be the perfect shop in Spokane I got Josh to give me a jump, hopefully the last one for a while. The shop’s hours posted on the internet were 9-6 M-F. I got there at 8:30 to make sure I was the first one in line. The shop didn’t look like the dealer I was used to taking the family Honda to growing up, nor did it look like AAA would approve of it either. It kind of looked like a cross between a junkyard and a mechanic’s shop but it met my criteria, lots of dead Vanagons in the lot. I waited till 9 and no one came to open up. I called the number written in sharpie on the door and the voice mail said they open at 9:30ish most days. Most days? 9:30ish? I didn’t have many options at this point, the van wouldn’t start so I was more or less stuck.

Around 9:30ish, Chris showed up for work, a rather large, muscular, 30something on a crotch rocket with a pistol on his belt. He looked like a former marine and when I asked him how it was going he replied, “It a Monday already.” Friendly, I could see, but he was the proprietor and hopefully had the answers to my problems and could send us on the rest of our summer journey. I went through the laundry list of things that had recently been replaced, added and checked and double-checked. Chris was now the fourth mechanic in less than a month to have his hands in this engine.

Chris, “Well, can you leave it?”
Me, “Not really, we’re hoping to drive to Glacier today.”
Chris, “I can’t drop everything to get you in.”
Me, “I understand.”
Chris, “From everything you’ve told me you need to replace the wire from your alternator to your starter. Do you have the tools to pull it out?
Me, hesitantly, “Probably…”
Chris, “If you can pull it out I can make you a new one and you can get going today, otherwise I probably can’t get to it till tomorrow.”
Me, “Can you show me real quick exactly which one I pull?”

I figured it was a single wire going from the alternator to the starter, a couple turns of the wrench and it’d be out. Not quite. While the van is 26 years old and has a tiny engine and none of the fancy things like air conditioning or cruise control or anything else to fill up the engine compartment it has a lot more things going on than my mountain bike which is about all of my mechanical experience to this point. I roll up my freshly washed sleeves, get my cracker-jack tool box out and begin by pulling the nut off the alternator, removing the wire and I start pushing it through the engine like I have some semblance of an idea of what I’m doing. I get on my back, shimmy under the van and with less than an inch of clearance between my nose (no Italian jokes here) and the transmission I work to pull the wire down to where the starter is located, right on top of the transmission. As soon as the wire clears the engine it joins a group of other wires that are tied to the frame. I stare at them for a few minutes, wonder what I’m supposed to do, try my best to follow them hoping there’s one that goes right to the starter but I can’t figure it out. I stare at it for a few more minutes because I really don’t want to bother Chris and his sidearm for something so simple as pulling a wire but I shimmy back out, tail between my legs, and tell him I can’t figure it out. He takes a look, tells me to pull the connectors off the frame and we follow the wires to a black box in the engine compartment which then leads to the starter.

Chris leaves me, probably mumbling at what an idiot I am, and I get the thing disconnected and rip it out from under the van. I’m now black up to my elbows, the back of my head is bruised from lying on the concrete and the tip of my nose is black as well. Like a kid carrying his first fish caught on his own, I proudly walk back up the drive and into the shop to show Chris my monumental accomplishment. “Excellent!” He tells me, probably happy I didn’t ask him to crawl under there to get it. He takes a look at it and says, “Now, do we make a new one or pull one from one of these vans?” pointing to the five or six dead vans in his lot. “I don’t care, it’s up to you.” I respond. “Well, lets take the one from that van. You know how to do it now and this time it’ll be easier because you know how to do it and there’s no engine in it.” ‘Great,’ I think, more time under a van. Chris throws me a piece of cardboard so I don’t have to lie in the gravel and I get to work. Easier, maybe a little, but still no fun, I get the ‘new’ one out and show it to Chris for his approval.

“Excellent!” He tells me again. “Now you should know how it goes back in after pulling two of them out.” “I suppose…” looking puzzled. I shrug and head back down to my van. Connect to the alternator, fish it over and under and around hoses and other wires, push it through to the underside of the van. Run back up to the donor van to grab the cardboard to lie on because the temperature outside is pushing 80 degrees before noon and the concrete is beginning to reach very uncomfortable levels and I shimmy back under the van. I look at all the wires, again perplexed, thinking back to which ones go to the black box and which ones to the starter, fish them over the transmission, connect to the starter, crawl back out, connect to the black box. I cross my fingers and go ask Chris for jump-start. “Excellent!” once again. He asks his helper to pull his Jeep up to bring the van back to life. We connect the vehicles and, fingers still crossed, I turn the key. The van roars back to life. I let out a sigh of relief. We check the vital signs and the van is charging! Finally! I feel like a hero, Jessica will be so happy we can continue our journey east.

“Let it run for a while to charge the battery, it’s really dead.” Chris advises. “I need to connect all those wires back to the frame don’t I?” I ask. “Eventually,” He says, “Let it charge for now.” As I start to pack my tools Jessica calls wondering where I am and when I’ll be back so we can leave. It’s almost noon at this point and I tell her I have to let it charge for a little bit, then connect the wires and I’ll be back in a half hour or so. All packed up I walk back up to the shop to poke around and look through some of the vans for things mine might be missing. The first thing I notice is the donor van. It’s about the same age as mine but it has seats with armrests. Armrests! You have no idea how miserable it is to drive for six plus hours without armrests until you drive for six plus hours without armrests. The upholstery even matches close enough that only a Vanagon purist would scoff at the mismatched seats. “Hey, Chris. Would you be interested in swapping front seats plus a little cash?” I ask. “We could probably do that.” He replies. “Let me make sure they fit on the rails in my van.”

I pull the passenger seats out and put the armrested seat in my van, sit in it, put the armrests down, lean back and feel as though I could fall asleep in it. I have to have these seats. “How much for the pair?” I ask. “I usually get $75 a seat.” He says without hesitation. “How ‘bout $50 a piece and you can have mine?” I counter. “Sure.”

I pull the drivers seats, grease the tracks, and slide it in. My new throne in all of it’s brown on tan glory. The van is still idling away, charging like it hasn’t for weeks, maybe even months. ‘If I had replaced that damn wire when this whole thing started I probably could have save hundreds of dollars and solved the problem long ago.’ I thought as I caressed my new armrests. At least I feel confident it’s finally fixed. About a half hour after starting the van with the new wires I shut it off and go to Chris to settle up. “I was just going to come down to collect so I can go get lunch.” He tells me. I ask him what the damage is for the wire and his time. “How about $20, you did most of the work.” I feel the back of my head throbbing, look at my black arms, black hands and bleeding thumb and feel like he’s the most honest mechanic I’ve dealt with thus far. I pull out my visa and he gets a worried look on his face, looks over his shoulder at the large hand written sign that reads, “No Credit, No Checks, CASH ONLY.” I return the worried look and tell him that if he can point me towards a grocery store I’ll pick up lunch and get cash back to pay him. He says I can follow him there.

After lunch I ask him if there’s anything else I should watch for on the van since we’re planning to put many thousands of miles on it and he says to watch the oil indicator light, “If you loose oil pressure in that engine it’s a death sentence. Your oil light comes on when you start the van doesn’t it?” Perplexed I say, “I’ve never seen it come on.” Worried, he says lets look at it. No light. We open the engine compartment again, he finds the wire, finds it spliced with electrical tape, tugs a little on it and separates it. “You have got to fix this. It will literally save your engine.” After explaining I need an oil sensor, a simple $5 part, and a new wire I ask if he has one. “I can order one. It’ll be here at 1.” Looks like I’ll be waiting around for a while longer, I pull my neatly packed tools back out and call Jessica and explain that I’ll be a little longer but I have a great surprise for her knowing she’ll appreciate the new seats almost as much as I already do. I can sense that her patients is growing thin. I assure her that the part will be here soon and it should go pretty fast once it gets here.

Chris shows me on one of the many engine blocks lying around his lot what I have to get at. “This is a fun one.” He tells me. “Your engine has to be totally cooled to get at it because you have to remove this cover plate and it attaches to two of your muffler mounts. You’ll burn your arms off if you go at it now.” Looks like I’ll be here even longer and the only thought running through my head is what my boss, Dick, told me before I left, “When your done with this trip you’ll know more about that van than a lot of mechanics.” Great, I’d rather be looking for grizzly bears in Glacier than a 13mm ratchet.

The part finally arrives around 1:30, I crawl under the van again, and wonder how in the hell I’m going to get these four bolts off. Two come off easy, the two attached to the muffler mounts are another story. I confer with Chris, “I told you this was a fun one. Try this.” He hands me a mini 13mm ratchet wrench. I crawl back down, more bumps on the back of my head, and slowly, one click at a time (one click is probably the equivalent of 1/32 of a turn) get the two remaining 1 inch bolts off. Now I don’t have a socket large enough to get the old oil sensor out so I beg a 24mm socket from Chris and pull the old sensor out. “Excellent!” he tells me again. Hands me the new one and I quickly get it in. Now I have to reattach the cover, one click at a time. I have Chris make me a new wire, splice it in, start the van and the oil indicator light flashes on. Relief. I pack my tools back up and give Chris $40 for his help and $100 for the seats. I say my thanks, and thinking I’m done I call Jessica. It’s 3 p.m. now, she’s obviously frustrated but I tell her I’m on my way. I get in the van, look in back and see those wire ties that hold the wire from the alternator to the starter off the transmission and attach it to the frame. Back under the van I wrestle the wires, wrangle them together and snap them back to the frame. The van starts right up, a farewell honk reminiscent of ‘Little Miss Sunshine’, I wave out the window and speed off to Josh’s to pack and hopefully leave for the rest of America.

The drive back is simple, two turns in four miles and I’m there. About four blocks from leaving Spokane I notice a police car behind me. We’re at a stop light, green light, go, red and blue lights coupled with a siren, stop… I’m being pulled over. I know I haven’t been speeding, I mean, really, its an old VW bus. Spokane’s finest comes up to the window, “You know you have no brake lights at all.” He informs me. Well, actually I do know that, sometimes they work, but usually they don’t. “You’re kidding, none at all?” I say innocently. “None.” He affirms. “Let me push on the pedal really hard.” He walks to the back of the van, “Nothing.” He says again. “Are the other lights working?” I ask as I turn on the hazards and walk to the back. “They’re working.” He says. “Boy, I’m just on my way back to my girlfriends cousins from the mechanic. I pull Chris’s business card out to show him. “You just got these fixed?” He asks. “Well, no. We were working on a different electrical problem.” I explain. “Maybe you just shorted something out and blew a fuse or something. How far are you going?” He inquires. “Just two or three more blocks, to Hawthorne.” I tell him. “Ok, that’s not far. When you get there park it and check your connections and fuses.” I assure him I will, he asks for my drivers license and runs my information and in a minute returns and tells me, “I know these vans can be a little temperamental.” You have no idea.

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.

Hospitals and Jails

As John Lennon put it, "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans." After staying the night in Cannon Beach Jessica woke up in the morning with lots of abdominal pains and nausea, vomiting and other unpleasant things. After a brief conversation she decided it was time to go to an urgent care clinic. You know Jessica is sick when she wants to go to the doctor. So we loaded up in the van with the dog to go to Seaside, OR to a Providence Medical clinic. The battery was dead in the van... Jessica sighed the kind of sigh that you only get when nothing is going your way, got out of the van and went back inside to lay down. Me, being the mechanic I am, figured I'd just track someone down to jump start the van, simple, right? I flagged someone down, had them pull up, hooked up, and nothing. Then I sighed the kind of sigh that you only sigh when nothing is going your way, smiled, thanked the fellow who lent his vehicle for my assistance and told him it was something a little more complicated but I appreciated his help. Now it was time to call Bill Trafton of Trafton's Foreign Auto. Bill is a jolly, gray-haired, lover of Volkswagen's who's been operating a VW shop in SE Portland for some 45 years. He knows the van, to say the least, and could probably walk me through disassembling the thing over the phone and rebuilding it. I explained the problem, he gave me some pointers of things to look at, clean, tighten, you know, old hippie van type fixes... Nothing... Call Bill back.

Bill, "Ok, I want you to run your jumper cable from the negative on you battery terminal, over the seat and bed (the battery in the van is behind the passenger seat and the engine is essentially in the trunk) and hook it anywhere on the engine, but make sure you keep it away from the belts, I don't want you to get it mixed up with those."
Me,"I can hook it to the transmission, will that work?"
Bill, "Yeah that should be fine. Now you need to find someone with another set of cables and try to jump it that way. See, it may be loosing ground and not charging so all we're doing is grounding it."
Me, "Are you sure this isn't going to blow something up?"
Bill, "Yeah, It'll be fine."

So now I need to find someone in the ritzyist beach town in Oregon to come and help me jump start my jerry-rigged hippy-bus and they have to have their own cables. Well, we found a neighbor with cables but no car and I was able to coax another car into my trap. The van started right up. Feeling like the king of the world because I wouldn't have to have my van towed Portland, yet, I thanked the kind lady in her brand new Subaru, who didn't know how to pop her hood, for her help. Starring into the whirring engine I thought I should call Bill back and get some pointers so this wouldn't happen again. "Don't turn the van off for at least a half hour, probably like an hour. Just go drive it and make sure you get a good charge on the battery." Well, I've got a sick Jessica and I don't want to leave her bent over in pain at the hospital by herself but I can't shut the van off? First things first, Jessica and Juno get back in the van and we're off to Seaside.

We find Providence Seaside no problem and I drop Jessica at the door, drive through the parking lot to find a parking space on a downhill slope and point the van downhill (anyone with an old manual transmission vehicle will understand why), roll the windows down for the dog, set the emergency brake, lock the van with the other set of keys and leave it idling in neutral and go to find Jessica inside. She had checked in to the walk in clinic and was off to donate some bodily fluids so they could hopefully find something simple like a bladder infection, give her some antibiotics and we'd be off. Not so fast. The initial tests came back with something precarious. Off to imaging for an ultrasound of her abdomen. We're now four hours into our visit, the van has been shut off for a few hours, Juno has explored the whole hospital parking lot and we're waiting for her ultrasound to be read. The very concerned doctor calls us into her office, sits us down and says she want a CT scan to see what's really going on inside of Jessica. The tears start to flow down Jessica's face thinking of the financial ramifications of all this medical care for a newly minted college graduate without a home, job or medical insurance (where's Obama-Care when you need it?). The doctor explained that Providence is a very charitable organization that offers great financial assistance to those that are in need and she will not do any more for her until she has more tests. We ask her for a few minutes to talk things over and she says that it was nice to meet us and reminded Jessica that, "your health is your wealth, you're free to leave, but if you want to stay and figure this out the ER is expecting you." We talked for upwards of ten minutes and decided to head down the hall to the ER.

Jessica was admitted, asked lots of questions to which they should have already had the answers to, given a gown and hooked up to an IV. Looks like we're in for the long haul... About a half hour later she gets wheeled out in a hospital bed to get her CT scan, I go out to the van to visit the poor neglected dog, call the families to let them know that Jessica is now officially in the hospital and it looks like she'll be staying the night. I get back to the ER the same time she gets wheeled back in and we wait for the images to be analyzed. We have a very nice English doctor who talks medicine, pandemic, World Cup, Crohn's Disease and a host of other entertaining topics with a great sense of humor. How'd this doc end up in Seaside?

The verdict is in, an enlarged colon, enlarged appendix, abdominal swelling and an infection in there somewhere. The diagnosis is a Crohn's flare to be treated with steroids and antibiotics through the IV, clear liquids only and if things look better in the morning she might be able to go home. Might? We could be stuck in Seaside for more than one day? "It's better than us having an ambulance drive you to Portland for care." Our English ER doc says in his British accent. "If I have to go to Portland can I ride in our van instead?" Jessica asks. "This is a hospital, not a jail," he says, "you can do what you want." Now we're off to the regular hospital to a room with a TV and to get set for the night, twelve hours after arriving at the walk in clinic.

Jessica meets her new doctor, a young guy from Chicago who's also very kind but not as quirky as the English gent in the ER, and her CNA for the night and presiding RN, both kind ladies who I trust will take great care of Jessica as she rests in preparation to leave the next day, hopefully... We agree that I should take the seriously neglected dog back to Cannon Beach and spend the night at the beach house while she gets some peace and quiet at the hospital alone. Juno is grateful to see me once again as I return to the van at dusk on the longest day of the year and as I get in the drivers seat one thought crosses my mind, "Please start." First try, we're headed back to Haystack Rock.

Back at the beach house I start to pack Jessica's things, call her family, play with Juno and try to decompress from my long day at the hospital and wishing Jessica was with me and not alone, still at the hospital hooked up to an IV with nurses checking in, measuring her fluid intake and outgo (if you know what I mean) and trying to get some rest. Around 1 a.m. I finally get to sleep.

The next morning I get up around 7 a.m. finish packing and cleaning, throw the tennis ball for Juno all the while, lock up the house and start the van before putting the bikes on the back in case it doesn't start and I need to get back at the engine. The van starts right up, I load the bikes and look around for Juno so we can go get Jessica and get on with our trip. Juno's gone. I'm guessing she ran down to the beach as she often does so I leave the van idling and walk down the drive to the stairs to the beach to look for the dog. She's no where in sight. I walk half way down the stairs where I can see for about a mile in either direction, nothing. Where'd she go? Who knows? I repeat this two or three more times, calling, whistling. Nothing. I call Jessica to let her know we're going to be late because Juno ran off and she says, "I guess this is her revenge for yesterday." I guess... As I hang up with Jessica a wet and sandy white dog comes panting up the driveway. It takes all I have not to strangle her after her half hour plus romp to who knows where while Jessica sits in a hospital gown in Seaside but at least we can be on our way now. My concern quickly turns to the gas gauge since the van has been idling for more than a half hour today and over an hour in the hospital parking lot yesterday. I cross my fingers and we make it back to Jessica.

As I get to her room the doctor is going over her discharge papers, yeah, we get to leave, and she has a great big smile on her face. I don't know if she was happier to see me or to leave. Probably to leave but I won't ask, I'll just assume she was happy to see me. "I've made an appointment with a Crohn's specialist in Portland for tomorrow." The doctor tells us, "He'll give you more information and let you know how to handle your Crohn's better so this doesn't happen again." Looks like our goodbyes were premature as we're back in Portland awaiting her appointment and hopefully a green light to proceed on our summer adventure.

Here's to hoping!