Ida-Know

 

Wow, I really haven’t written since heading to the Oregon coast?  The truth of it is that there isn’t much of a story; after my delightful visit with friends in Oregon and a surprise treat of coffee and Danish the next morning with T&D, I high-tailed it back to the mountains.

And so you find me in Eagle, Idaho, at the Hi Valley RV Park, yes another RV park, but that seems to be the only way I have enough internet connection to actually post anything.  This is also an unexpected second stop in the Boise area and, wanting to be close to the city, there isn’t a lot from which to choose.

I took a leisurely drive from the Oregon coast to Boise, stopping in the delightful town of Sisters for one night and another night at Idlewild Campground in Burns, Oregon, where we woke to snow.  The forecast called for a "40% chance of rain" at 8:00 AM and, since it was snowing at 7:30, I decided to make a hasty retreat before the "100% chance of rain" hit at noon.  And so we were snowed out of the mountains yet again.

I was beginning to wonder if I would ever feel warm outside; I was quite sure that my Spring Fling started an entire month too early.

My first stop in Boise was a planned stay for five nights at a VRBO in the Harris Ranch neighborhood.   After three solid weeks in Beagle without even a hotel, it was a welcome treat.  Even more so with the fenced backyard so that when my bout of food poisoning hit me all I had to do was crawl to the sliding glass doors and let out the dogs.  Yes, it was bad.  I was extremely grateful to be in a house (and a delightful one at that!) rather than in the Beagle.

Having lost a few days to sickness, I extended my stay two nights so had an entire week to get to know the neighborhood (fell in love) and more of Boise (still think it’s the best next stop for me.)

Despite the snowy weather still approaching the mountains, I was looking forward to being back in the Ketchum/Sawtooth National Recreation Area part of the world.  So we set off on a Thursday morning in the freezing weather, thinking I was well covered with both a Plan A (a campground just outside of Ketchum) and a Plan B (a disbursed camping area on the other side of Ketchum.)

This brings us to lesson # Whatever:  Shoulder season camping requires a lot of research into what is open and, even if your research reveals that it is, you cannot count on it, so best to leave yourself lots of time because maybe, just maybe, neither Plan A nor Plan B will work.

And so it was.  The charming looking Boundary Campground, despite the Forest Service website listing it as “open” was in fact closed until the Friday before Memorial Day.  Plan B’s disbursed sites flat out gave me the creeps:  They were deep up a canyon along a small river, with lots of trees, no cell service, and muddy snow everywhere.  I turned around.

Time for Plan C:  I remembered the Sawtooth National Recreation Area, a place I had camped at last year, and figured it would be open year-round for snowmobiling and snow-shoeing, and, if it wasn’t, I planned on camping in the Ranger Station parking lot for the night.

But it was open and I nailed a gorgeous site alone in a field with the creek about twenty yards away and a view of snow-capped mountains out the front and back window of Beagle.  Add in the fact that it is the only spot in the NRA with some amount of Verizon service (as verified by the Ranger) and that camping is free this time of year, it was a camper’s heaven.

(Yep, that's Beagle & Wurzig in the distance!)

I had hoped the weather would hold out long enough for me to stay four nights but, alas, the snow she did come again.  And I was just darn tired of being outside in the cold.  On Day 2, when the altitude began to make me nauseous, and the weather reports in all the mountain towns I had hoped to visit showed well-below freezing nights and snow/rain during the day, I did a hasty retreat back to Boise.

Having been thrown off my schedule innumerable times now, I just need the world to hold still for a few days so I have five nights here.  It’s a lovely park in the Eagle area of Boise, lots of walking trails, a dog run for the noses and I have a nice, wide spot with very quiet neighbors.  Plus a pool and jacuzzi; if it ever gets above 50, I might take the plunge.

So now when people ask me where the next stop is, I just reply, “I dunno.”  I can tell you this, my next reservation is May 17^th at Farragut State Park in northern Idaho and after that every night is booked until June 26^th at which point I need to high-tail it back home.

Hopefully there will be some good stories between now and then because this one was a real snooze-fest!  But thanks for reading anyway.  :-)

-K

Where the Warm Wind Blows

 

Greetings from Casey’s Riverside RV Park in stunningly gorgeous Westfir, Oregon.  A planned one-night stop for laundry turned into a two night stop for fun. 

Lessons learned so far:

1)  You probably aren’t going to be able to hike above the tree line if people are still skiing in the resorts.  (Hello?  Why is this a lesson?  What was I thinking?)

2)  Partial shade and partial sun and nights below freezing are the trifecta of conditions leading to your batteries only lasting three nights in one place.  (And yes, I could have just plugged Beagle into Wurzig and run the engine but that would be dangerously close to using a generator—something I cannot stand to hear in a campground.)

3)  Cell service matters greatly in the shoulder season:  Between road conditions and needing to find alternate places to stay, having access to the internet is vital.

Now back to the regular program.

Here’s the thing about me and Wind:  I can’t stand it.  Well, most of it; I do enjoy a warm, caressing island breeze particularly at night, nothing better than that, but for the most part the rest of Earth’s breath I would rather not feel.  So, despite being all alone next to Eagle Lake in Northern California, 

where I should have been living the camper’s dream, the wind had me trying to scamper away as quickly as possible.  But not without leaving a lasting impression.

I have rituals while camping that keep me sane and, more importantly, breathing easily which is hard to do when you are allergic to dust and your little white dog who sheds like nobody’s business:  Every morning I shake out the bedding and hang it on the door while I vacuum out Beagle and the dog beds. 

My morning at Eagle Lake was no different; I had the back door open on Beagle and upon the front door hung my down comforter.  But not for long:  The wind, which had been a constant cold companion for twelve hours, burst into hyper mode and Swoosh!  Away flew my comforter!  And Swoosh!  The wind whipped right through Beagle’s two doors, pulling River’s bed out the back. 

Yep, all into the dirt.

This was the first time I thought that I might need a spa appointment.  

The second time was when I had learned from the Ranger’s office that I would not be able to reach my campground in the Three Sisters Wilderness due to snow closures.

The third was the morning I made the appointment.

I found the lady via the Yonka website, a brand of cleansers and lotions that I have been using for over twenty years, she was practicing in Bend—where I was headed instead of Cougar Crossing.  I thought if nothing else, I could stock up on supplies but booked an appointment for a full facial.  It was raining and cold and I needed a treat.

And here’s the thing about me and Facials:  I rarely let anyone give me one except for Ollga in Seattle.  I have tried other places and have been disappointed.  But I knew I was in for a treat when I was led into the warm, inviting therapy room, asked to put on a terry cloth wrap (engineered to leave your shoulders and chest bare so they can massage them while the masks are working their magic on your face) and climb into the heated bed.

Ahh. 

A little small talk ensued to get us both comfortable, I quickly discovered that, despite looking like a city lady, she was as much of a camper as myself.

              “Where have you camped so far?” she asked.

              “Bass Lake, Lopez Lake, Reno for laundry and repairs, Eagle Lake.  I was supposed to camp at Scott Creek but when my navigation system suggested a turn onto a dirt road for six miles with a snow storm moving it, I headed down to La Pine State Park instead—which I found wonderful.”

              “La Pine is great but you have to watch out for cougars.”

This actually made me laugh out loud—not an easy thing when someone is massaging your face.

     “Opus and I enjoyed a six-mile hike there during which I actually said to myself, ‘It’s so nice not to have to worry about cougars.’”

After that not much was said.  I enjoyed the feeling of potions being applied to my skin, listening to the expensive jars of face cream being opened and closed and then…then…could it be?  The boiling hiss of the warm mist machine!  First introduced to me by Ollga, it is a device that heats up water (scented with Yonka’s spray lotion, of course) and then puffs it across your face much like a warm, caressing island breeze.  I was a million miles away walking along a beach, my feet in the sand and nothing but warmth surrounding me.

Then all too soon, it was over.  My skin was radiant; I felt like a new person.

The weather continued to be a challenge with only partially sunny skies and below freezing nights but Opus and I managed to get in one great hike, almost seven miles up Tumalo Creek.  The day was mostly sunny and we were both feeling so great that I let Opus run free--until I saw the cougar prints in the snow.

And here’s the thing about me and Fate:  If you believe in Fate life becomes very simple.  You see a cougar print and you think, “Well, if it is my fate to be mauled to death by a cougar, I can’t imagine a more scenic spot than this.”  It was indeed gorgeous.

With no electric sites available at Tumalo State Park, the partial sun and partial shade of my pitch not allowing for much solar generation, and Beagle’s batteries at 32%, it was time to hitch her up.  And if I was going to hitch her up, I was going to see something new.  So we left Bend a day early and headed south.

What?

Yes, it felt very odd on my Northwest Tour to be heading south, but I still wanted to visit Westfir, the town just below my original camping spot of Cougar Crossing (the name of which, by now, was taking on a whole new meaning.)  So 97 South to 58 West and what a gorgeous drive that is!  Definitely an area that will need further exploration.  Odell Lake, Waldo Lake, high mountain passes, rushing rivers below and plenty of Snow Parks to pull into and take some time to enjoy it all.  I cannot wait to return in the Fall.

Today Opus and hiked up into the snow again, it’s our last mountain adventure until we reach either the Sawtooth Range in Idaho or the Wind River Range in Wyoming.  So we soaked it all in.

Hard to believe tomorrow we will be at sea level--and enjoying some of the most beautiful coastline imaginable.  Oregon is one magical place.

-K

Deja Vroom!

Greetings from Jordan Valley, Oregon!  Yes, I am back in Beagle—this time with no tour name, clearly, that is bad luck.  I decided, since I am a few weeks off my original plan, to bee-line it to Idaho.  Well, as much of a bee-line of which I am capable; I am on my fourth night and my daily mileage has been 188, 266 and 339, which leaves a paltry 82 to get me to Boise tomorrow—giving me plenty of time in the morning to explore the area.

I started a day early to have two nights at Bass Lake which had me arriving there on Sunday.  Never arrive there on a Sunday.  Or Saturday.  Or Friday for that matter; it was crowded with day-trippers, the Day Use Areas packed and cars overflowing onto the already too narrow road winding around the lake.  My double-spaced campsite (the only one I could reserve) felt enormous after squeezing by the cars on the road.

OK, I’m back:  Today is clearly my day to deal with bizarre insects; one just flew in, created a string of web from the ceiling and was spinning itself around in circles in front of my face.  And this, dear reader, is not even the worst bug story you will read tonight.

Back to Bass Lake:  It was so hot!  Thankfully I was able to park Beagle in the shade which helped enormously.  I used my portable solar panels (since her normal ones were now shaded) to keep the battery charging although between my use of the interior fan and the refrigerator’s use of its cooling fan, it was a losing battle.  I alternated between the two the best I could.  I am not a happy camper when it is over 80 degrees.  To keep myself sane, I walked down and swam four times in two days, the cold water was delightful; I was dry again by the time I made it back to camp.

I thought my second day at Bass Lake would be my vacation day before all the driving and, although it was nice with an early morning hike, swimming and lots of staring at the bright blue sky through the cedars, day three felt more like a vacation.  I had planned on driving through Yosemite but noticed a sign on Highway 46 saying that driving passes were required (a Covid holdover which, apparently, they are going to keep through the season—don’t get me started.)  I did not have a pass and, after talking to a fellow camper who purchased his three months ago, figured I didn’t have much chance.  I was right.

So Day 3, I tried to get a pass through Yosemite, failed, assumed I would cut over the Sierra’s via Highway 4 which I don’t think I have done before but, when push came to shove, I could not make myself take that turn just outside of Sonora.  The Sonora Pass was calling me yet again!  It is one of my favorite places on this planet, what if Highway 4 doesn’t even come close? 

We stopped for a riverside lunch at Brightman Camp, the spot we discovered on the last crossing, before continuing over the pass.  It was nearly as beautiful, and I felt just as much at home amongst my boulders and trees, but it was not breath-taking like it had been a month ago with all the snow.  Still, well worth the drive.

And guess where we stopped for the night?  The Grand Sierra Casino RV Park!  It was near ninety degrees in Reno and I needed to plug in and get the A/C on for the dogs and my bathing suit on for me.  I tried, once again, to swim around all the drunk people in the resort pool but gave up and just floated on my back, thankful to be cooling off.  

So a nice early start for today, which is my longest drive day so far at over three hundred miles.  And not a pretty drive either:  Interstate 80 to Highway 95, all flat, hot, dry, desert accompanied by the navigation system announcing the soul-crushing news of, “Please follow Highway 95 for 190 miles.”  Ugg.

After a few hours, I knew I should rest, so pulled into a rest area not hoping for much other than a flushable toilet and space to walk the dogs.  Pulling in to the truck parking, I looked over and saw…wait for it…grass!  And trees!  And shade!  I was beside myself with joy, planning to make a sandwich, grab my beach towel and sit for at least thirty minutes with the dogs on that shady grass.

But first things first, I had to use the restroom.  So I hopped out and, as I was walking across the parking lot, almost jumped out of my skin at the giant bug which I just missed crushing.  I am not kidding you, its body was the size of my palm.  Look at your palm!  Its BODY was that size and then it had legs and an antenna or six—things were moving all over this beast—it’s a miracle that I didn’t scream. 

I did manage to give the UPS guy sitting on the wall near the walkway a good laugh.

              “Easy to freak out over these things”, he said after he stopped laughing.

              “These? There are more?”

And then I saw them; they were everywhere.  Hundreds and hundreds of them (again, not kidding), they were walking down the grassy slope across the pathway and to the asphalt—who knows why.  It was like a horror film.

              “My god, are they in the bathroom?” I asked.

              “Not the men’s.” 

              “What in the hell are they?”

              “Mormon Crickets.”

Which explained the tiny bibles.

But I still had to get to the bathroom which meant walking up the path.  I reminded myself that I was at least a million times bigger than them, “But they are a million and you are one!” shouted my brain.  I decided to run.  This was not the best idea as it caused them to jump up, thumping against my legs.  I was horrified.  Horrified!  I dashed into the women’s room where a young girl was crying and I knew just how she felt.  We still had to get back.

I did eventually get back to the car; clearly my picnic was out of the question so I quickly walked the dogs (of note, Opus, who I have never known to be afraid of anything, would not go near the crickets), put the Noses in the car, and hoped a cricket didn’t make its way in there while I made my sandwich.  Standing guard while I ate, I will admit to watching as a couple pulled in and began their walk to the restroom, the UPS guy was right; it was damn funny.

About an hour later, driving on the endlessly straight, Highway 95, I noticed what appeared to be blood on the asphalt, you know, like when something gets hit by a car and you see the dry, smeared blood, a dark reddish-brown color.  But it was just under the track of the right wheels, not anywhere else.  And it went on for about a quarter of a mile then would stop for a bit then another quarter of a mile.  It was intriguing (admittedly, it doesn’t take much on this drive.)  Then I noticed a brown patch ahead and it had those hideous crickets walking on it—they were trying to cross the highway!  In masses!  And squish, squish, they would get smashed and the brown I had been driving over was their remains.  I happily added a layer.

This was freaking me out!  All I could do was hope that the brown stains stopped some time before Jordan Valley because I was not going to camp anywhere those creatures might turn up.

Sure enough, the stains stopped.  But I still asked the camp host about the cricket situation and he admitted that sometimes they march in by the thousands but he hadn’t seen them yet.

I figure I have about twelve hours.

-K

PS:  Just a friendly reminder that the notification via email will stop working soon; I am tweeting out a link, you can find me @kitrinabryant

The Essentiality of Freedom

(With credit to P. G. Hoffman who, I believe, first coined the phrase.) 

I have been struggling with how to relate the prior eleven days in Beagle; I could entertain you with stories about The Night of the Tick Infestation (I spent all night crushing ticks off of myself and Opus—they didn’t seem to care about River—and every time I found one crawling on me I would shout, “Bug!” And that, being Opus’ nickname, would cause Opus to jump.  It was a long night.) or the Tale of the City United in Defiance (an entire city in Oregon refuses to play the fear game, they have restaurants open, bars, someone served me ice cream!  It was like walking onto another planet, a familiar one, one for which I yearn.) or The Tale of the Island United in Fear (you can guess where that is.)

But I would rather talk to you about courage. 

During these past eleven days, my courage has grown immeasurably.  Which got me thinking, how does one become courageous?  I posit that it comes from experience; experience and learning from that experience, building one little brick of courage at a time.

While on the Oregon coast, I stopped at a State Park parking area.  I knew all the state parks were closed and all the turnouts I had seen had roadblocks and signs.  But then one turned up without either roadblocks or signs and I thought maybe, just maybe, they were giving us a break.

So I parked the Beagle, leashed the noses, took a breath to replace trepidation with courage, and started into the heavily wooded hillside, hoping to get a glimpse of the rocky shore.  About a mile down the trail I became very uneasy; the woods were too quiet and the trail more and more narrow; I was plum out of courage—it was time to listen to intuition.  I turned around.  When I did so, I saw a side trail off to my left, heading west, almost covered in bushes.  I broke through and was awarded the view you see above.  I stood there for a long time, eventually raised my arms to thank the scientists above for giving me courage.  Without courage I would not have been standing there.

Every day and night on the road I had to stifle my fear of not knowing where I was going to park for the night.  All the RV parks are closed as are state, county and federal campgrounds.  (Can someone explain to me why you can stay in a hotel, where you pass people within two feet in a hallway but you cannot park your self-sufficient Beagle in a campground?  Illogic like that makes me think the people in Oregon have it right.)  But I digress…

As you know, my first night was on a street outside a hotel in Petaluma.   I awoke the next morning and was thrilled; I felt freedom.  When I walked through the (mostly closed) downtown to gather my Starbucks breakfast, I stopped to play a piano on the sidewalk (talk about courage!) looked a man in the eye as we were passing (within six feet of each other and no masks dear god!), smiled, returned his good morning and felt a spark in my being that has been missing for far too long.  I felt like Kit.  Finally.  Happy.  Free.

Then there was a night at a marina (in the happy town with ice cream) and my first ever night in a WalMart parking lot.  You know what?  It was a hell of a lot better outside in their parking lot than inside their stores!  Yes, that took courage.  Particularly when the truckers rolled in but I quickly learned that there is a nice comradery amongst them which made me feel protected and safe.  That morning I woke and knew that I had turned a corner in my courage; I could go anywhere in Beagle now and not worry about where I might end up for the night.  Imagine what that has opened up!

Eventually I got to Orcas and stayed six nights in Sea Salt but still showered in Beagle.  Long, uninteresting story.  I also cleaned out the shed, depressing, private story, but another experience that added foundation to my courage.  Not all experiences are enjoyable; sometimes the difficult ones lay even more bricks.

After leaving Orcas, a friend told me about Hipcamp.com, a site where private land owners list camping spots and, apparently, are not afraid to do business right now.  As my final (to date) step up the courage ladder, I booked a site east of Chico, off of Highway 70 for two nights.  And it is amazing!  A little challenging getting in (unlike campgrounds or RV parks, I could not be sure what condition the road might be in and there is no directional sign indicating a turn into a campground.)  So, courage in place, I blindly turned off the highway, onto a dirt road, eventually finding my lovely little pitch.  Full hook ups no less!

Now I sit here, finally writing my blog.  Experiencing life provides an opportunity to gather courage and using courage leads to experiencing more of life; it is a delightful circle, but one that requires you to begin by choosing to live. 

So I ask you all, can you step up on your brick of courage and choose to live?  The thing about courage is, much like muscle, you have to use it in order to keep it.  If you stop being courageous, fear creeps in and that cycle is what I think most of society is in right now.  More fear leads to less courage which leads to less experience of life and therefore no chance to build courage, which brings us back to, you guessed it, more fear.  This is a vicious circle.

Give the other circle a chance.  Use what you need to in order to be comfortable (masks, hand sanitizer, social distancing) but go experience life even if it means pushing against those trying to hold you back, add some bricks to your foundation of courage.  

The only thing anyone can guarantee you is that one day you will wake up just in time to die—from any one of hundreds of ailments or accidents, often without warning.  Live while you have the choice.

-K

PS:  Turns out, the only thing essential to me is the freedom to determine what is essential to me.

All About Wurzig

I am currently sitting in Lee Vining, California, having just listened to Terry Gross interview Jarret J. Krosoczka who’s book, Hey Kiddo, is nominated for the National Book Award.  His is a story of how he grew up barely knowing his heroin addicted mother.  This makes me very hesitant to write anything at all let alone about the mundane aspects of being on the road.  But when I was 13 I read a great quote, “Sex appeal is 50% what you have and 50% what others think you have.”  Maybe that will work for writing as well.

I am also going into this post knowing that some of you will read this and think, much like Mike at Niello Porsche, “This lady has zero mechanical know-how.”  But before I get to that, I have to clarify something from my previous post.

Apparently a couple of the readers (proof that there are more readers than just my mom!) took my wording in Devil May Care to indicate that I had someone specific in mind when I mentioned my surprise at being alone for this trip.  That is not the case.  Here’s the scoop:  Last May when I purchased Sea Salt (a 23’ Airstream Serenity) to be parked on my lot on Orcas Island (and never towed by me), I thought to myself, “Life is not unbalanced.  I imagine by the end of the summer I will meet someone who drives a Ford F150 and wants to pull a 23’ Airstream all winter long.”  That figment of my imagination was what I was thinking about when I referenced my surprise.  Usually in my life, with one extremely gaping exception, I get what I want.  As life would have it, I am clearly meant to be alone in my (much smaller than Sea Salt and therefore easily towable by me alone) Beagle.

So on to the story:  First of all I have to mention that, again through my meditation (and I promise not to belabor that point—everyone has something that works for them, meditation appears to be my thing), I have come to appreciate even brief human connections.  To truly connect with people; looking them in the eye, focusing on the conversation at hand whether it be ordering a cup of coffee or, as happened in Oregon, being chided by someone who looked to be 12 years old but was, in fact, a mechanic.

Let’s go back to Oregon:  I was leaving my two night stay at Humbug Mountain and heading south when I stopped to top up my tank and have some air put into Wurzig’s right rear tire.  I mentioned to the attendant that this was the second time in less than a week that I have had to put air in the tire and, being on the road, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it.

               “Get it fixed!” was his adolescent reply.

              

Seems obvious now.  But still I drove on.  When I pulled into Brookings and was almost immediately presented with a Less Schwab Tire Center, I took it as a sign.  They could see me that day but not immediately so I towed Beagle to the nearby Harris Beach State Park Campground and returned for my two hour wait.  But I am not complaining—they found a screw in the tire, fixed it, gave the dogs cookies and didn’t charge me for the service.  Plus, in the meantime, I discovered a wonderful bakery that also sold eggs from the free range chicken farm next door.  It was a win all around.

The next day we took off toward central California; the beaches were nice but the mountains were calling me.  This time of year when the leaves are turning and the snow has not yet begun to fall are precious, delicious mountain hiking days.  We headed toward the Shasta/Trinity area, taking Highway 299 across to Weaverville.  A delightful drive if you are ever in the area, the road winds along the Trinity River.  At one point it was so stunning I decided to pull off to the side and go sit by the bank.  I opened the back door, leashed up the dogs, and headed toward the river.  I was a few seconds into the walk when I realized Opus’ leash was, let’s say, limp at the end.  He wasn’t actually leashed up.  I could not see him anywhere and my heart sank.  His options were to cross Highway 299 and head into the hills or head down to the river.  

Long ago I learned the best way to catch a terrier is to run away from them, so I called, “Opus, this way!” unleashed River (who would rather die than be more than two feet away from me) and ran toward the river.  Within seconds Opus jetted right by both of us and waited for us at the shore (I snapped the picture above as we met him) where he was promptly, and truly, leashed.

But I digress from my Wurzig stories.  I decided to stay two nights in Weaverville and spent the next day hiking up Long Canyon which really should have been named Long Hill—five miles of almost constant incline.  A delightful day, I didn’t see anyone on the trail until I was heading down.  I love hiking but I am not sure which I love more, hiking or driving Wurzig—untethered from Beagle—up those mountain roads.  Both experiences are exhilarating in completely opposite ways.

Driving back into town, Wurzig presented me with a yellow warning light which read (and this is still in contention between the Porsche mechanic and myself), “Oil level depleted, maximum 2.5 quarts.”  No big deal, I am Porsche savvy, I know they eat up oil particularly when towing and particularly when driving them, ahem, passionately.  I sedately drove to O’Reilly Auto Parts, opened my manual and read what type of oil to purchase.  I bought four quarts.

Four?  Yep.  I know Wurzig holds an incredible amount of oil and took the message to mean that it needed almost 2.5 quarts.  So I figured I would put in two and have some on hand.  I put in two.  The needle didn’t move—never mind that I was reading the oil pressure gauge—and before you start on the dipstick jokes, there is no dipstick.  Apparently, when you own a 2017 Cayenne Turbo you are supposed to settle into your 10-way adjustable leather seat, turn on your Burmester sound system, push a few buttons and have the computer tell you your oil level.

But I had not known that yet.  So when I got back to the campground, I put in two more quarts of oil.  Oh yeah, are you now thinking that I have no mechanical know-how?  You would not be alone.  Let me jump from here right to my conversation the following day with Mike, from Porsche Sacramento:  I was driving down the soul crushing I-5 headed toward Porsche when he returned my call, speaking via Bluetooth (hands free, Mobom) while cruising along:

               “Hi, this is Kit”

               “Hi Kit, this is Mike from Niello Porsche returning your call.”

A quick note here:  Californians are wonderful.  Every time I return to this state I am amazed at their attitude, they assume you are coming into their life to bring fun and adventure and are up for anything.  Mike was no exception, his voice was friendly, happy, confident and about to become very concerned.

               “I understand you received a message about your oil?”

               “Yes.  Let me fill you in.  I have a 2017 Cayenne Turbo which I am using to pull a small Airstream and have been on the road for about a week.  Yesterday I had a yellow light come on my dash that said, “Oil level depleted, maximum 2.5 quarts.  Incidentally, does that mean it is down to 2.5 quarts or it needs 2.5 quarts?”

               “Actually, neither.  It probably didn’t say quarts at all”, He said with a smile in his voice.

               “I am pretty sure it did, but let’s move on.”  Slight chuckle on Mike’s part.  “So I put in two quarts and the needle barely moved.”

               “What needle?”

               “The one on the dash.”

               “That is the oil pressure indicator.”

               “Well, that’s illuminating.  I think this is a good time to tell you that I am actually quite intelligent despite what this sounds like.  I did read the manual about checking the oil…eventually.”

               “Glad to hear, what happened next?”, still happy, confident.

               “When I saw the needle didn’t move, I put in two more quarts.”

               “You put in a total of four quarts?” And here happy, confident voice turned into concerned voice.

              

               “Well, if you didn’t think that was a good idea, you really aren’t going to like what I did this morning.”

               “Please go on.”

               “Having read further into the manual last night I became concerned that I had put in too much oil.”  I paused slightly for him to clear his throat, and, I imagine, rub his hands across his eyes .  “So I took the car out on a test run this morning, as I didn’t want to hitch up my trailer and run into trouble while towing.”

               “Good idea.”

               “See?  I do have my moments.   I got the car nice and hot, tried to measure the oil via the on dash computer which I finally figured out how to activate, but it just said, ‘Cannot measure oil right now.’  Despite that, there didn’t seem to be any problem so I returned to camp, hitched up my trailer and started out across the mountains.  Just after leaving Redding, as I was looking forward to the scenery on Highway 44, a red light lit up my dash and it said, ‘Oil critical’, or something like that—the red icon startled me.  I pulled over, looked up the icon in the manual and it said to go directly to the nearest Porsche dealer.”

               “That sounds about right.  Please tell me you are not still on Highway 44.”

               “No, I am on the I-5.  But when I got that message I thought I must have an oil leak.  My choice of dealers was Reno, via the mountainous Highway 44 or you in Sacramento via the safer I-5.  I decided to first return to Redding, purchase more oil, put it in and head toward you, knowing you would find the leak.”

               “You put in more oil?”

               “Yes.”

               “Did you see any leaking out under the car?”

               “No.”

               “And yet you thought you had a leak?”

               “Yes.”

               “Where are you now?”

               “I am about 45 miles from Sacramento.”

               “Please come straight here.”

               “Well I am towing my trailer so I thought I would first find a campground and drop the trailer and then come to you.”

               “Kit, please come straight here.”

               At that, I became nervous.

               “You don’t think I have a leak, do you?”

               “No.  I think you put in too much oil and your oil pressure is way too high which caused the red light to come on.  Just continue driving, if you see black smoke coming out of your exhaust, take the next exit and call me, we will send someone to get you.  In the meantime, I am going to see if we can’t squeeze you in this afternoon.  I think you should be here about 3:30, yes?”

               “I think so.  But what about my trailer?”

               “We will find a place for it here on the lot, please just drive carefully and come directly here.”

Isn’t that delightful?  So there I was on the disgusting I-5, towing a trailer with HMS BEGL plates while driving past pasture fences festooned with signs declaring “I [Heart] Jesus” and “The Lord Our Savior Can Save You Too”.   I turned on gospel music and sang to the glory of Kit just to round everything out.

But we made it, I was never happier to pull into a Porsche service center.  I detached Beagle, they whisked Wurzig away and returned him with the appropriate amount of fresh oil and a sparkling clean exterior.  While waiting I was kept occupied giving tours of Beagle as is the case wherever we park for more than five minutes.

Needless to say, at the end of this day I was quite tired and stressed.  I drove a bit longer to a KOA in Placerville which was every bit as soul crushing as the I-5:  There is a free shuttle to the casino which should give you an idea of my fellow campers.  Although they were a welcoming, if inebriated group; a pack of ten or so applauded, actually applauded, and called out, “Awesome!” as I drove past them to my scummy pitch next to the highway.

It was a scotch night to be sure.  Dogs fed, scotch in hand, wondering if I had the energy to make an omelet for dinner, I decided to take a minute and plan my next day’s drive as I was sure as hell not staying there one more second than necessary.  As usual, I took out my phone to ask Google to navigate to the next stop; her usual reply is, “Sacramento (or wherever), sure!  Let’s go!”  But not that night:

               “OK, Google, navigate to Lee Vining, California.”

               “Lee Vining is 163 miles from here and may take you four hours, are you sure you want to go?”

I kid you not.   

My reply? 

               “I’m not fucking sure of anything.”

-K

Devil May Care

At the beginning of summer, I would have bet money that I would not be taking this trip alone.  But then again, two years ago I would never have thought I would be living on the road again, particularly as a single woman.  It is fitting that my first night was where I first conceived the idea, Lopez Island.

Last winter, lying awake at midnight in my cute log cabin, I wrote out my dream plan:  Sell the cabin, buy an Airstream and hit the road.  Ten months later, it is all done and here I sit at Humbug Mountain Campground along the stunning Oregon Coast. 

To set the stage:  There is no TV on the Beagle and most of the time I have so little cell service I cannot stream anything (WIFI in campgrounds is unheard of, WIFI at RV Parks is sketchy.)  So I packed the Beagle with heady books from intelligent people whom I admire; John-Paul Sartre, Ursula K. Le Guin, Sam Harris, Hermann Hesse, and, when I need a laugh, David Sedaris.   I didn’t name my Basecamp the HMS Beagle by accident; I am off to discover what life is about, at least for me, and I am not above gaining a head start from people I admire. 

However I do need to figure out a way to read before cocktail hour as gin and philosophy make for interesting interpretations.  I have the following Sartre quote hanging in the Beagle:  “Freedom is what you do with what has been done to you.”  I see it every day when I wake up and it inspires me to do – whatever that might be, just don’t waste this precious human life.  But after a gin?  All I do is have more Cheese-Itz.

Locking up my Seattle apartment and driving away felt like a dream; I couldn't even listen to music in the car for the first hour.  I just drove and took it all in.  It reminded me of when I first jumped off a high dive into a pool; I knew I had the skills to survive what was coming but it was slightly terrifying none the less.   Ahh, the freedom of flying through the air!  Now I am flying across the earth with very little holding me down.  The enormity of this much freedom is intoxicating.  We’ll see if it is addictive as well.

Back to today:  I wasn’t planning on stopping so soon but on the drive the sun (finally!) came out and one hand and two noses flew in the air when I asked, “Who wants to take a hike?”   We took the next hiking trail turnoff and hiked up Humbug Mountain for four miles.  After two days in the rain it was delightful to feel moisture coming out of my pores rather than trying to come in.  Never under estimate the power of sweating.

Back in the parking area, I checked the weather and it looked promising so I decided to stay the night in the campground across the highway.  I am practicing my first goal; to enjoy the space between and embrace grey areas—those of you who know me, know this might be my biggest challenge yet (but you also know I love a challenge.)

Despite being so sure that I would not be alone for this trip, I am enjoying it immensely.  The Beagle does not have a lot of room; it is difficult to imagine another human in here.  But I could imagine another human this evening:  While walking to the beach I noticed a fish swimming in the creek alongside the path.  If I had a man with me (yes, sorry to be sexist here, but some things I really just want a man for and fishing is one of them), I would ask him to bait my hook, shortly thereafter remove the fish I had caught, and shake me a martini while he cooked it for dinner.  Been there, done that, and am looking forward to doing it again.  Of the many things in life that are worth repeating, a close human connection might be the most valuable.

I was reminded of this recently on a hike back in Seattle.  I had spent the better part of eighteen months doing things alone and forgot how joyful it is to share an experience with another human being.  On that hike, I paused three times and relaxed into the quiet comradery of a shared experience.  All three times I felt like we weren’t individual people anymore, that we had been absorbed into our environment.  I have no idea if he felt the same way, it was enough for me to recognize it within myself.  I will treasure those three moments and am thankful for my meditation training; it has given me the ability to stop, sit and appreciate.

But back to my trip:  My basic agenda is to follow the sunshine, play tennis, golf and hike as much as possible while visiting friends and family.  Three days in now and I haven’t made it out of Oregon so it might be a very long trip.  As I mentioned, my first night was on Lopez Island, stealing time with two of my favorite people; the second night I was in Cannon Beach; third in Honeyman Campground, and the fourth here at Humbug Mountain, perhaps for two nights.  It is a campground situated with a dog friendly beach on one side and a lovely hike up a mountain on the other.  My idea of a perfect spot (and Opus gives it four paws.)

Last night I listened to a two hour interview between Sam Harris, Bill Maher and the director of Ridigulous, celebrating the movie's ten year anniversary.  I cannot believe it has been that long.  I cannot believe how little has changed.  If anything, people seem even more intolerant of each other, less adaptable.  I hope to project more tolerance and [Kit* knows I will need] adaptability on this trip.

Opus and River are with me, of course.  Those of you who know them know what a devil Opus can be but so far he has been a joy.  Racing around the Oregon beaches and coming back when called, although I fear the day I don’t have chicken treats handy.  River is River, always ready for a hug and a nap.

I will certainly miss the people I left behind as much as I am looking forward to seeing the people ahead.  I decided to blog about the trip primarily because while blogging the Aventura I found that I paid greater attention to my surroundings and more often appreciated what seemed, at the time, to be insignificant things.  Specific to that, I will note that here in Oregon, the trees grow as high as in Washington but they don’t flop over at the top. 

I imagine I will welcome that sign when I return.

-K

PS:  I did stay a second night at Humbug so that the dogs and I could have an entire day outside.  We hiked over ten miles and raced free on the beach before heading further south.  

PPS:  For more pictures, you can find me on Instagram @kitrinabryant, or click on the link in the HMS Beagle Photo Album blog post.

*Being an atheist I find it very helpful to insert my name for “god” or "jesus", particularly when enjoying gospel music--give it a try, you might be amazed at how it raises your self esteem.  (Not that I need any help...)