CA Streamin' The Final Act: From Streamin to Screamin

 

Monday morning, waking to the sound of rain on Beagle’s roof yet again, I glanced out the window to low lying fog and lowered my gaze to the muddy pitch.  Despite four days of mostly rain, the weather report promised yet another “Atmospheric River” beginning on Tuesday—and warnings of evacuations along the Central Coast.

              “Opus, we are out of here!,” I yelled.

OK, I didn’t yell, I used my ‘let’s make this fun’ voice as I layered on my raincoat and prepared to walk Opus in yet another California downpour.

You may recall that I cancelled my San Simeon State Park reservation because the rain was coming and I didn’t want to camp on dirt.  So I paid another astronomical amount of money per night for the brand new and fancy Flying Flags RV Park in Avila Beach.  A full hook-up spot with a view of the ocean. 

At their prices I assumed I didn’t have to ask about parking on dirt.

You know what they say about assuming, but there is only one ass in this situation.

Imagine my disbelief and dismay when I pulled up to Site 44 and began to back Beagle into place on dirt (ok, it was fine crushed rock, not dirt but it was still muddy and sticky.)  I was careful to align Beagle so when I first stepped out her door, I could land on the cement patio.  But every time I walked Opus or got in or out of the car, it was a squish-fest of wet, sticky pale pink mud.   Have I said sticky enough?  That stuff was everywhere. 

However soggy, I was glad to have the four nights there as it allowed me time with family but with more rain coming, I cancelled all other reservations for California (including a ski trip to Tahoe—there was no way I was taking Beagle up there again) and hit the road.  All I knew was that it was sunny in the desert and there was nothing but rain and snow all the way up California.  So desert it was!

Luckily I have even more family in Las Vegas so I stopped there one night before heading to this lovely spot you find me in now:

Sand Hollow State Park in Hurricane, Utah—if you want to sound like a local you have to say “Her-Kin.”

With a severe thundershower rolling in, traffic was edgy coming up from Vegas with everyone trying to reach their destination before the heavy rain reached us.  At one point, a dump truck passed me, and when he pulled back in front, Wham!  Rocks came flying out; a couple of them pinging off Wurzig (who already has a small crack following those heavily “sanded” snow roads on the way down.)  Thankfully no new pits in Wurzig’s glass.

Pulling up to the registration booth, I noticed that the lady was looking at me with something like pity.  Does she pity me because I am alone?  It was odd…pity with a bit of a wry smile like, “What can you do, eh?”   Anyway, I happily thanked her and headed to my pitch.  After parking and unhitching Beagle, I stepped inside to make a sandwich and realized the glazed look on Beagle’s front window was not rain.

That dump truck!

Thankfully only a couple of small holes were in the glass although, clearly, the rest was shattered.  But still holding up!  Can you imagine?  If it had all caved in, I would have had a mess of glass and rain and, let’s face it, tears.  As it was, I knew I needed to get something over those holes and the major cracks before the skies really opened up so duct tape it was.  We made it through the heavy rain and the morning dawned without a cloud in the sky.

Did this make me rush home?  Nope.  I had one more day of vacation built in and I was going to use it; this morning Opus and I hiked Quail Creek Lookout at the nearly adjacent Quail Creek Reservoir (some of you may have read my rave reviews of that campground before…these two parks are great but Sand Hollow is definitely for OHV’s—they are everywhere including along the shoreline—whereas Quail Creek is much more suited for quiet fishing, hiking and paddleboarding.)

 

All hope of paddle-boarding was quashed when the wind picked up during our return; gusts strong enough to almost knock me off my feet were not something I wanted to take on while standing on a floating board.  So we returned to Beagle, applied Flex Seal to the small holes and cracks in the window and then covered her up for our seven hundred mile trip home.  Dividing the travel in half, I’ll stop tomorrow night in Antelope Island State Park before making it home on Saturday.

So draws the end of California Streamin’ 2023.  Not nearly what I imagined but a great lesson in enjoying where you are at right now.

-K

PS:  For my camping buddies:  There are three campgrounds in Sand Hollow all quite aptly named:  Westside (where Beagle is) is paved with full hook-ups but does not have views of the reservoir; Sand Pit which is gravel and suited for people who love large packs of people with easy access to OHV trails (not sure of the hook-up situation); and Lakeside which is paved, peaceful and delightful.  There is also primitive camping at the end of a dirt road.

CA Streamin' Act II: A Vacation for Almost Everyone

 

It might be the last of the warm sunshine I feel for awhile so, as I wrote about in The Gift of Knowing It Is The Last Time, I am basking in it:  Beagle’s doors are all open, the screens pulled across to keep the flies out and Opus in (not that I trust either of those scenarios), the sun is warming the side of Beagle as it slowly maneuvers its way toward the end of the day, and my body is tired from today’s beach hike and swimming. This is my idea of heaven. 

If you read my previous post, Act I, you know what it took to physically get here; an arduous journey for Wurzig, Beagle, myself and Opus.  After five nights in this Disneyland for campers, three out of four of us feel like we have had a lovely vacation.

“Isn’t your entire life a vacation?” you ask.   Actually, last year someone said that to me—not in question form, more like accusatory form—and I had to admit that he was right.  But, just before booking this fancy RV park, I had turned down an opportunity to go to Hawaii with a dear friend.  Hawaii sounded so good: Sunshine, warmth, swimming, a true vacation.  But I did not want to fly anywhere so, despite Sun Outdoors Santa Barbara’s $140 per night charge I decided the vacation portion of CA Streamin would happen here.  The resort boasts easy access to beaches, hiking trails and an onsite pool and jacuzzi.  Sounds like vacation to me.  The hills just behind the RV park:

For Wurzig, vacation meant freedom to go as fast as it was allowed, not having to tow Beagle, not having its tires rubbing against the snow and ice built up inside the wheel wells, not having rocks from the “sand” fly up and crack the windshield.  It meant over 80 MPH with the windows down and the moon roof open and the radio blaring, making even the (unexpectedly far) drive to Santa Barbara activities a pleasure.

For Beagle it meant a full hook up spot where, connected to “city” water, she didn’t have to run her pump to deliver water to the faucets, and plugged into 30 AMP power she didn’t have to fire up her gas burners to heat water or keep us toasty during the surprisingly cold nights.  (Unfortunately, there was a power surge one night and she blew her 15 AMP breaker, nullifying any use of internal outlets; I was without toast for four mornings.)

For me, having spent a lot of time in Santa Barbara for, let's just say, not pleasure, I was anxious to spend time in the town as a tourist.  It turned out to be a great combination:  The comfort of knowing your way around and the joy of discovering new places.   

Due to the rains, all my favorite hikes in the National Forests were closed so Opus and I made do with the Bill Wallace El Capitan Trail (adjacent to the RV Park), the Goleta Beach UCSB Lagoon Trail, and miles and miles of the gorgeous path that runs along Santa Barbara from north of the Marina and down to Butterfly Beach.  But my favorite activity turned out to be a new one:  Paddle-boarding on the open sea.

I had paddle-boarded before, but never on the open sea (once was in San Diego’s Mission Bay which is, technically, salt water, but no one would confuse it with the open sea.)  I’m talking waves baby!  And sea lions and harbor seals and did I mention waves?  My guide, Amanda from Cal Coast Adventures, was fantastic:  Very calm, reassuring, and supportive with comments like, “Feel free to stand up whenever you are ready” and, after a particularly ungraceful sharp left turn on my part, “But you are still on your board!”, and my favorite, “We are going under the pier, not into it.”

I could not be in Santa Barbara without visiting the Helena Street Bakery (twice) and Brody Brothers for chowder while overlooking the marina:

 

But I also forced myself to try new things.  East Beach Tacos was highly rated on Google, a hole in the wall kind of place adjacent to batting cages.  The line was already long at 11:15 AM and I could almost hear the locals cursing Google and Yelp as they patiently waited for the rest of us to make up our mind.  But how could you?  Sure, they had the basics:  Fish, shrimp, carnitas, carne asada, but they also had Banh Mi and Gangnam Style.  In keeping with my 50/50 familiar to new philosophy, I opted for one grilled fish and one Banh Mi.  Rated on Google, of course.

Due to the Yelpification of Jeannine’s, I tried another new lunch spot, The Goat Tree; where I sat in a delightful, dog-friendly, sun-dappled patio and enjoyed the Smoked Salmon Toast which was presented so beautifully with grated red beets resting atop the white and green alfalfa sprouts, which, in turn, rested upon the pink salmon, I almost broke my rule about taking pictures of my food.

And nothing says vacation to me like laying in the sun which I did every afternoon before swimming in the small but clean pool.  Or trying to.  Yesterday I was entering the pool via the steps and, as I tripped and began to tumble into the pool, I had two thoughts, “Thank god I am landing in water”, and “Does anything make you feel older than tripping on your way into a pool?”  Turns out there is something:  Today I walked into (elegant, trendy, cool) Dean’s Coffee Shop which was filled with UCSB students.

As I mentioned, three out of four of us were thrilled with this vacation; Opus begs to differ.  Although he has enjoyed lots of off-leash beach and hiking time, back at camp the squirrels required constant vigilance.  Often by 4:00 PM, he would sit by the front door of Beagle and ask to go inside.  Sometimes ignorance is bliss. 

Often.  Often ignorance is bliss.

Like with every vacation, this too must end.  But with even more storms rolling into California, I have made some changes to my itinerary.  I had planned on leaving here and going to San Simeon State Park where I would be camping, truly camping (without water or electricity and on, get this dirt!) for four nights.  But it is due to rain almost continuously for those days and, although I often camp in rain, and I often camp on dirt, I do not camp in rain on dirt.  So I am off to another pricey RV Resort…

-K

PS:  I call this, “She Who Must Have Toast”:

California Streamin – Act 1: Exchanging Highs for Lows

 

I almost don’t want to write this, don’t want to take myself back to what I went through, literally and figuratively, to get to this delightful spot.  Right now, the sun is shining, the sky is mostly blue, the temperature is near 60 and all that is running through my head is my instructor saying, in reply to my, “Well, that lacked both style and grace!” with, “But you are still on the board!”

But how did we get here, to this Disneyland for campers?  It took blind faith in my ability to say, convincingly, “I didn’t see that sign.”  And I would need that faith twice.

*

I sincerely hope it is just me who makes this mistake but, when pulling out of Boise a few days ago, I did not look at the weather report for the route.  When leaving from anywhere but home I check the weather in multiple locations along my planned route.  But often when leaving from home, caution succumbs to adventure.

Expecting light snow in Boise, I awoke to three inches:

And still it did not occur to me to seek out the weather for my route to Reno. 

Ready to put some distance between us and the cold—if the highs got into the 40’s we were thrilled—Opus and I and about ten different pieces of sporting equipment, set off for California.  Where else would you be able to use a SUP board, hiking boots, bathing suit, golf clubs, pickleball racquet and skis?  No wonder Walt chose this place; it is magical, particularly when you are not living there anymore.

So off we go, headed south on Highway 55 to Highway 95.  It is snowing and there is so much snow on the hills I realize I finally understand the term “blanket of snow.”  The next time you lay a blanket across your legs (and I hope it is soon—is there any greater comfort?) look at how the space between your knees disappears.  It all gets rounded out and fluffy looking.  That’s what the hills looked like:  There was no visible chaparral or tufts of tall, dry grass, no dry tumbleweeds rolling along, there was just a soft pillowy whiteness as far as I could see. 

The sky cleared a bit but the roads were still slushy, often with only one rail of black visible but at least one side of the car was on asphalt.  I was glad to be surrounded by semi-trucks until I, suddenly, wasn’t.  We came around a corner, the road dipping down into a slight valley and, as my eyes followed the road across to the other side, the one line of black disappeared.  The road up the other side of the valley was solid white.  The semi’s around me joined the six already on the side of the road putting on chains.  Dutifully working next to the flashing sign, “Chains required at this point.”

Well, I didn’t have chains so I didn’t bother stopping.  In for a penny in for a pound.  This is where my experience up in McCall came in handy:  I had pulled Beagle up to the ski resort on roads looking much the same as this.  I’ve got this.  And if I didn’t, there were plenty of truckers behind me.

The going was slow, I just kept a steady RPM, careful not to accelerate or brake suddenly and before I knew it (actually two hours had gone by), I was over the pass and rolling, not only with all four tires on black asphalt again, but dry black asphalt.  Yes!

Just outside of Sparks, we saw the first of the “I-80 is closed” signs, in conjunction with “Limited parking for semi’s in Reno.”  Turns out the highway had been closed all day due to the four feet (four feet!!) of snow that had fallen and a small avalanche that had taken out the west-bound lanes.  I was really glad I had a reservation at the KOA Boomtown.

But CalTrans wasn’t the only one unprepared for the dumping of snow; the KOA, apparently, only plowed once as there was still plenty of snow on all the roads and most of the pitches.  Here’s where they thought I could pull Beagle:

But there was no way I was going to open Beagle’s door and step into two feet of snow, so I opted for a back-in spot that had been at least partially cleared:

As it was, I was in snow up to my knees getting to the electrical outlet but it was worth it.  With temperatures down into the teens overnight, I wanted Beagle plugged in.  Redundancy in heating systems is important at those temperatures.

Sunny but frigid in the morning, I was happy to hear that I-80 was back open.  Assuming it would take a few hours for the miles and miles of semi’s parked along the highway to get going, I decided to take a rare morning shower.  In the Beagle, I usually shower at night but the night before was too cold and I thought, “It’s going to be a long day, at some point you will be tired and cranky and you can tell yourself, ‘at least I am clean’.”  That was some awesome foresight.

I had 430 miles to my destination, the driveway of a dear friend, so I started the day motivated and determined.  I entered I-80 West and this is what I saw for two hours (and a mere four miles):

Yep, only 426 more miles to go.

But things were worse on the other side; there was an accident so severe that no cars were coming down the eastbound lanes and, in fact, numerous emergency vehicles utilized that empty space to respond, driving the wrong way up the highway.

For us heading West, right at the California border (naturally) the CHP had reduced the two lanes to just one for the sole purpose of evaluating every car to see if it was fit to go over the pass.  Once in the evaluation lane, you were either waved to your left and sent on your way up the pass or waved to your right and sent toward (this is an important distinction) the highway’s off-ramp.

I was waved to the right.  I rolled down my window in anticipation of having a discussion about my traction tires (all wheel drive all the time) with the CHP officer.  But he waved me further to the right.  I had just passed the second officer (who, like his partner, had no desire for discussion) when I decided they must be ok with me and so, seeing six feet of space between the orange cones, I turned left and merged into the “good to go” group.

And off I went. 

It wasn’t until some time later that I realized the officers didn’t want to talk as they assumed I would follow the orange cones to the exit ramp and off the highway.   But by the time this occurred to me, I had other things on my mind like the fact that often without notice, the barely two-lane (due to the snow banks on each side) highway would suddenly turn into one as you rounded a curve to find a giant snow moving device working on the bank.  And these were not plows running parallel to the lanes, they were tractor like devices turned perpendicular to the lanes building walls of snow and ice.  These walls were easily ten feet tall. 

You know those cautionary curve signs, often yellow, that provide a recommended speed for the curve ahead?  Ya, couldn’t see the lettering.  I have never, ever, seen so much snow in one place. 

Once over the pass, the roads cleared significantly and, as my hands lessened their death grip on the steering wheel, I was able to look out at the gorgeous snow-filled hillsides with just the very tallest of trees and the largest of rocks visible.

Home free and only 300 miles to go. 

Yep, it was a long, long day.  Eleven hours in the car which thankfully ended at the house of TWGPT, where, without me needing to shower, we immediately walked in the cooling night down to some delicious Mexican food. 

The low that night was 40.

-K