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

I Can't Stay Away! (And 2022 Final Numbers)

 

Hello dear Reader and greetings, once again, from Beagle’s northern home base in Boise.  I just finished cleaning her out and delivering her back to her heated storage unit after what was to be a brief—and turned out to be a very brief—winter camping adventure.

And yes, I had written that winter camping was not for me but I just couldn’t stay away from Beagle.  So I packed two kinds of ski’s, Opus (of course) and headed north to McCall.  What a difference six months makes in Idaho!  Six months ago, we were there—heck, less than six months ago—camping in Ponderosa State Park and swimming in the lake.  Now the lake is frozen over and snow banks are so high you can barely see the directional sign to Opus’ favorite stop, the West Face Trailhead.

That was our first stop after the two-plus hour drive up from Boise (incidentally, one of the prettiest drives I have been on; Highway 55 north winds along the Payette River offering plenty of views down to the dark, frigid water cascading around the white, snow-covered rocks.)  Go ahead, take a minute, enjoy the Zen.

Now we're back: Having been to the trailhead parking before, I knew there was plenty of room for Beagle.  It is a great place for a short hike with Opus, off leash, zooming between the walls of the snowshoe tracks like an Olympic toboggan.

Legs stretched, we continued the few miles to Brundage Mountain, the local ski resort.  I had also been there before and knew of the RV parking area and, it being a Thursday, I was reasonably sure I would have a spot.  The sun was shining and the fresh snow on the slopes was calling!  I quickly backed in Beagle, changed clothes and hit the slopes.  One of the prettiest days of skiing I have ever had:

With so much sunshine and only a couple other campers at the ski hill, I was tempted to just park there overnight (they do charge a nominal fee.)  But the temperature was (supposed) to drop to the teens overnight, and, although Beagle’s gas heater and heated lithium batteries would certainly carry me comfortably through the night, I felt like I wanted a little redundancy in the plan.  If something should go wrong with the gas heater, at that low of temperature, all kinds of trouble can start; I opted to drive down to the McCall RV Resort and plug in. 

The teens the weather service promised turned into single digits overnight.  And for the first time ever, I woke to frozen water pipes.  Yes, the heater ran all night and I had it set at 42, my normal overnight temperature, and the tank heaters were on but still poor Beagle could not bring forth water—I could get hot water, just nothing from the cold tap.

The RV Resort sits down along a creek and my spot was well shrouded in trees so, despite the single digits, I went outside (Opus, who normally will walk in anything, pee’d quickly then stared meaningfully at the warm car) hitched up Beagle and towed her up to the sunshine.  We were supposed to stay there two nights but there was no way I could do that now.  I headed south but it still took an hour of driving to reach twenty-two degrees; I pulled into a snow park area to let Beagle’s heater and the sunshine work their magic.  And they did, I am happy to report that no pipes burst and everything seems to be in working order.  Back down in Boise, it was a whopping fifty degrees so I celebrated by giving Beagle a thorough foam-brush washing at the carwash.

Despite the scare, the trip was still fun and I’ll go up again.  The weather should improve steadily now and when overnight temperatures are solidly in the 20’s I’ll head up again, this time parking overnight at the ski slope (because, tell me, doesn't this look like heaven?):

-K

PS:  Numbers for 2022:  As some of you may remember, I was trying to get my miles per night camping down to 50 (from over 100 in 2021), I came close:  Total miles, 8,912; Total nights, 129 (35% of all nights in 2023); Miles per night, everyone’s favorite, 69.

The Gift of Knowing It Is the Last Time

 

Greetings, Dear Reader, from Beagle’s northern base, Boise, Idaho.  Yes, it’s been a long time and I have been remiss in that I have, in fact, had the Beagle out at least twice without so much as a hint to you.  I would apologize but the truth is there was very little to say so you should really thank me for not boring you to death.

However, this topic, the gift of knowing it is the last time to experience something, has been rolling around my head for many months. 

Have you noticed that in life there are moments when you can feel the last time coming for years, or maybe just hours or, on occasion, with startling immediacy?  The shorter the time of realization, the more difficult it is to appreciate the gift of knowing it is, indeed, the last time.

In the course of the last couple of Beagle trips, I have covered all three and, am happy to report, that I took notice that it was the last time and appreciated it for everything a last time should be:  The gift of having that time with someone or something knowing you will not have it again, maybe forever, maybe for some period of time you cannot measure, and maybe just for the season.  It makes you utilize all your senses in an attempt to gather as much information as possible so you can carry that love despite the lack of its physical presence.

For the last few years, I have known River was getting close to the end of her time on Earth.  I know I have blogged about her death before, but it is worth repeating with the emphasis on the fact that I knew the last time with her was coming for over a year.  And so I took the time to give her extra huggers and to tell her what a good dog she was and try to love her as much as she needed (which, for those of you who knew River, was never enough.)  I knew the end was coming and when it came, I was glad that I had appreciated the last times with her; it made it easier to accept that it was the last time forever. 

Then there was the day when the last time struck me one bright, sunny morning camping on the shores of a lake in Utah; I didn’t see it coming but when it did, it felt right and I knew I had only a few hours.  A few hours to be able to tell someone how much I appreciated having them in my life; how they made me a better person; and how, suddenly, now, it is time to walk away.  The last hug for time immeasurable.

A few weeks after that, camping on Antelope Island, again in Utah, waking up to a toasty Beagle but everything outside frozen solid (it was 10 degrees when I woke up), I realized it was the last time for Beagle winter camping.  This was a sad realization for me as I had planned on taking Beagle up to McCall skiing at least once a month for a week each time through the winter.  But I found, like when it is over 100 degrees, camping in extremes is not my thing.  So my last night heading back home, I laid in Beagle and savored her smells, the hard bed, the puffy, warm comforter, the encapsulating and safe feeling of having everything you need all around you all the time.  The last night in Beagle for the season.

And so Beagle is parked in her indoor garage, taking a break.  I was just out to see her yesterday and, after opening her back door, I leaned over and hugged her cushions.  I miss her so!  But have no fear, if this cold, grey Boise weather sticks around, she’ll be packed up soon enough and heading south.

-K

PS:  The photo above was taken on the last Beagle trip at a lovely reservoir in southern Utah.  

For the Love of River and Shade

 

Yes, the Beagle is back out!  A short trip to test a few items:  Leaving from the new northern home base (Boise), how badly I will miss River, will I be able to get a first-come site mid-week, and will I ever get back that joy of the open road?

Moving (aptly named but may I suggest “displacement”?) is moving and I am sure all of you have done it; after a week of unpacking boxes, setting up gadgets (like Ethel my robotic lawnmower, who, it turns out is smarter than Lucy my decade-old robotic vacuum, but not quite as smart as The Countess, my upstairs robotic vacuum) and cowering in the afternoon heat of Boise (hovering at 100), I decided I better get up to the mountains and remind myself what this relocation was all about.

Despite my love of Beagle, it was difficult to make myself hit the road—even for just a couple of nights.  That last trip, the ten-week and over 3,700 miles of snow, rain, concussion, flat tire and leaking Wurzig really zapped my adventuresome spirit.  But set out we did:  Opus and I hit the road toward the Sawtooth Mountains, that vast area of wide-open meadows backed by towering, jagged peaks, which made me fall in love with Idaho last summer.

But sadly, no River.  She died a few weeks ago.  As some of you know, she had a wonderful life.  As I wrote in my journal, “River was born in California, she died in California and in between she visited eleven countries…and peed on a castle.”  Here she is with Alan in Switzerland, maybe they are together again.

***

It’s still hot up here at Stanley Lake Campground, mid-eighties and four-thousand feet closer to the sun than Boise.  But the lake cools me during the day and the nights drop to forty which is delightful.  The minute I pulled in to my first-come site with a view of the jagged mountains, I knew I had made the right decision.  Here was my idea of paradise, no reservation needed, and only three Beagle hours from home!

As nice as it is to just have Opus for hiking and hanging around Beagle (he does not bark at other dogs passing by whereas River would go ballistic), I do miss River.  Some of you have heard her “Roo-roo-roo!” and seen her circles, experiences I doubt I will ever hear or see again, but only one other human has ever seen her clever use of shade.  

A decade ago, when Alan and I were hiking with her and Rosco in the hot California Sierra’s, she would stop underneath the shade of a tree and wait there until she lost sight of us then run forward to the next shady spot and wait again.  Probably the smartest thing she ever did—she was not known for being clever.  (To be fair, she had tough competition with Rosco ahead of her and Opus bringing up the rear.)

Today I feel like River:  It was even too hot to sit by the lake after swimming so Opus and I walked from shady spot to shady spot until we were back underneath Beagle’s Moonshade.  Here we await the cooling afternoon breeze, of which I feel the slightest hint at the outer edge of the hot, puffy gusts.

***

And that adventuresome spirit?  I eventually did feel it, albeit not until I was headed home.  Leaving the campground, I turned south on Highway 21, checked out Beagle in the rear-view mirror, looked ahead at the open, curvy road and felt that tinge of excitement, that thrill of the open road, that security of knowing you are carrying everything you need and the smack of freedom when you realize that you could just keep on driving.

-K

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Canada

 

Greetings from Cascade Lake State Park, the Crown Point Campground location where I have happily exchanged pants for shorts, wool-lined slippers for flip-flops and hot herbal tea for beer.  I should be drinking the beer right now to recover from Opus and I being attacked by two pit bulls but then this tale would wander more than usual.

As this is likely my last post for this trip, I feel like I need to sum some things up.  So here we go:  I spent a good four weeks wondering if I would even be warm again, three weeks wondering if I would ever be dry again and one week warmly embracing my new home.  This is Day 63 out of 71, my Miles Per Night is at 52 (close, as you may recall, to my goal of 50) and I have discovered that there is something as too much Kit Alone in the Woods.

I am ending the camping on a high note, perched in Site #10 (pictured above), gazing down at the clear, blue lake and up at the puffy white clouds floating across the vast blue sky.  There is still snow on the peaks across the lake—quite a difference from last year at this time when campers were flocking to RV parks in order to run their A/C during a record heat wave.  Beagle is surrounded by tall pines and placed so that I have good privacy from other campers.  Yes, the Kitness is alive and well despite me using an abundance of it lately (attacks from pit bulls notwithstanding—although we did survive.)

Some of you know that I have always known (and said) that I would not stay in Morro Bay for long.  As I was making my way up to Canada a few weeks ago, I realized that the housing boom was likely to end soon and, if I wanted to get top dollar for my house, now was the time to sell.  So I placed a call and got it listed.

It sold within a week for an exorbitant amount of money.  I can still hardly believe it, I keep thinking something is going to go wrong, but here we are closing escrow in two weeks like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

Last Spring’s trip to Idaho sparked my interest; discovering the Sawtooth Wilderness, the friendly camping-crazy people and, of course, the fact that there is a Porsche dealer in Boise, made it very inviting.  And this year’s five-night VRBO stay out in the Harris Ranch neighborhood sealed the deal.  If I could sell my house in California, I would try Boise next.  And so it goes.

When it was obvious that the house deal was really going to happen, I cut Beagle’s Canadian Tour short and decided to head back to Boise for some serious house-hunting.  Not quite ready to give up camping, I decided to take a week to drive the eight-hundred and fifty or so miles giving me ample time to discover new favorite places and embrace the idea of living so close to them.

First stop was Riley Creek Recreation Area outside of Sandpoint.  A new campground for me but a familiar town which felt great after a few weeks of everything being new.  I took advantage of my previous visit and did a favorite hike.

Next stop was a return visit to Farragut State Park which, due to my tire issues of last month, I barely had time to enjoy, having to reduce my original four night stay down to one.  So my treat to myself was three nights there—and in the same pitch!  Because it was perfect and I couldn’t imagine anything better.  Still can’t.

Then I had a long-ish drive day down to Riggins, Idaho where I was planning on stopping for the night at Shorts Bar Recreation Area, an open camping area with no delineated pitches just people making room for each other along the sandy shoreline of the Salmon River. 

It had been about 250 miles to that point, I was tired and the dogs were hot. 

We pulled into the area, almost passed out due to the smell coming from the vault toilets and drove past a wall of Class A’s and Fifth-Wheels lined up closer than in any RV park I have ever seen.  And this was a Thursday afternoon.  It was dusty and hot and all you could hear were the generators running outside almost every rig—I assume they were running their A/C’s.  I didn’t know.  I didn’t care.  All I knew was that if I was going to have to be crammed next to other campers in a row, I was going to do it in an actual RV park so at least I didn’t have to hear their generators (for you non-camping people, at RV parks people will plug into electricity to run their A/C.)

Plan B time and I actually had one!  I had made note of a highly rated RV park another ten miles down the highway in Pollack.  Google, take me to Canyon Pines RV Resort.

It was still hot when I arrived and suffocatingly muggy inside the office where the husband-and-wife owners were already busy helping people. 

              “Will I be able to park extra cars nearby?”, asked The Customer.  (By the sound of his condescending voice, I should refer to him as The King but it will suffice to Capitalize.)

              “Yes, you have reserved all of these sites”, returned the owner, drawing his finger in a large oval over the campground map, “so if not everyone shows, you can park anywhere along there.”

My hopes of getting a last-minute spot were, like the droplets of sweat on my temples, racing downward.

The wife became available.

              “May I help you?”

              “Hi, I was hoping to grab a spot just for the night.”

              “We have a huge party here that has reserved a lot of the park.”

              “Yes, I see.  I don’t need much, I just need a wide spot in the road, no need to hook up or anything.”

The wife looked over at the husband who was still talking to The Customer.  The Customer is now explaining the ins and outs of cooking a “trash can turkey”, trying to get the owner to agree to let him do it.  They settle on it being ok if the “oven” can fit in the firepit.

The wife and husband exchanged a look.  The wife looked at The Customer and said,

              “Since not everyone is showing up in your party, would you consider releasing a site on the end for an overnight road warrior?”

It took me a minute to realize she was referring to me, then I turned to The Customer and gave him my best smile,

“It would be greatly appreciated.”

He actually hesitated before saying,

              “I suppose we can do that.”

So the wife booked me into Site 30, a pull-through, right on the river, Beagle’s doors open to the river, no one next to me, gorgeous, grassy, wonderful site.  I pulled in, the husband came out to make sure I was ok and I said, “I feel like it is my birthday or something!”  I put in a laundry, opened a beer and munched potato chips as I watched the water, and one dare-devil of a kayaker, race by.

Now that is Kitness.

Today was a short drive day so I decided to stop at Ponderosa State Park in the lovely town of McCall.  Another discovery from last year, I remembered that the Visitor’s Center had RV parking and access to trails around the lake.  It feels great to be familiar with an area, particularly when it allows you to enjoy it like this—often on towing days I don’t stop along the route being unsure of where I would fit.

I parked, Opus and I took a long walk along the lake, then we returned for River, made a picnic and took it to the grassy area where we all lolled around enjoying the warm, muggy day. 

A quick thirty-minute drive brought us to this lovely spot where we’ll enjoy two nights before heading to a VRBO house in Boise.  As Beagle is always my first thought, I have found her an indoor, heated (for winter) storage spot.  I decided not to bring her all the way back to Morro Bay just to turn around and drive her back up.  It will be the furthest apart we have ever been.  I am not 100% sure I’ll be able to leave her behind.

I don’t want to relate the pit bull story; I don’t want to relive it.  Suffice it to say that I will report the incident to the Idaho State Parks—the owners were the camp hosts.  Five times Opus has been attacked by pit bulls and twice I have landed kicks into their beefy sides.  The first time I ended up with blood dripping down my calf, this time all I have is a bruise.  And bewilderment that people continue to say these dogs are not aggressive.

-K