How Many Times Must a Dog Dig Down?

 

One day I posted a picture of Opus, head down in a hole, digging away, living the purpose that has been bred in him for centuries, completely in his element; my post included a question:   If terriers were bred to hunt, for what were humans bred?  My favorite response came from my Mom, “Entertainment.”

I have alluded to The Scientists a few times in this blog but to put it in black and white, I believe we (humans, animals, Earth) are someone else’s experiment.  We are no more than rats in a maze, something, I posit, that rats have one up on us, after all, they will eat us alive and that is not likely to happen in reverse.

I often talk to the Scientists, let them know that I am ready for The Next Big Thing or what I think I need, and they are always ready to respond.  Recently, I asked them to “just give me people to camp with, men, women, I don’t care.”  And so, because sometimes they just need a good laugh, they set it in motion.

Of my own free will and self-determination, I joined the Airstream Club because they had an intra-club of “Indies” people who, I thought, choose to travel alone (as opposed to have to travel alone—there is a big difference here.)   I set off to my first, and last, Airstream Rally last month with high hopes of meeting people just like me:  Introverts who craved privacy.

Here’s a transcript of the Scientist’s audio report:

“847 found a path to having people to camp with.  We provided someone to camp with on the way to the larger gathering as well as forty other campers at the gathering.  [A slight chuckle enters the voice] The first night she spent an hour with her fellow camper before retiring to the privacy of Beagle, and the next day [more chuckling] she adamantly refused to drive in tandem to the larger gathering.   Apparently, she could not even stand the thought of being next to another human on a highway in a separate vehicle.  [Total breakdown with laughter.]   Once at the gathering, true to her nature, she chose to park the furthest away from the group that she could and commenced to utilizing strict control over her facial expressions every time someone mentioned “pot-luck” or “carpooling.”  Priceless!  This one really is too much.

Can’t thank you enough for letting me report on this; I needed a good laugh.”

Needless to say, I left the Airstream rally one night early.  Oh, but my learning was not over.

Heading north toward the Tetons, I stopped outside of Jackson, Wyoming to take a quick hike with Opus.  It was a lovely hike through rolling foothills with wide open spaces all around.  Not noticing any geography that would stop me from seeing Opus for hundreds of yards, I decided to let him off leash.  It never occurred to me that he could disappear under the dirt.  (You may see here why I think rats have the upper hand—how many times do they make the same mistake twice?  Who am I kidding:  A dozen times?)

Opus heard the quick, shrill chirp of a Marmot and took off.  I could see him for a good hundred yards and then boom!  Nothing.  Completely disappeared.  I started jogging to the area, across the dirt and sagebrush, keeping my eyes where I last saw Opus, when boom!  My right leg had nothing underneath it and I pitched forward, right cheek to dirt. 

No time to waste though, I jumped up and reached The Hole.  Looking down, while dirt clods were being thrust backward into my face, all I could see was half of Opus’ tail and a brief second of each rear paw as it continuously drove dirt away.  I knew I had about 1.5 seconds before I would have to find a shovel. 

So right cheek to dirt again, I laid down and reached my arm down into the hole, grabbed the very tip of his tail and pulled him out.  (This breed of terrier has no nerve endings at the base of their tails for just this purpose.) 

Oh the Scientists were laughing again:

              “This one!  She just won’t learn!”

              “But wait, there is more, you have to watch this scene:”

The woman and the man are having a respectful but heated discussion about God.  The man is holding his own, not becoming defensive, actually becoming more self-assured and calm with each answer to the woman’s challenging questions.  “What does believing in God do for you?  What do you get out of it?” to which he replies, “Comfort, a sense that something or someone is in control.  I do not believe in a judgmental God, its more like a benevolent energy.”

              [Explosive laughter]

              “Did you see that?  Did you see her face?  Just when she realizes that the man’s description of God sounds a lot like Us.”  

“Play it again, this is hysterical!”

-K

A Flower, a Meadow, a Mountain, a Marsh

 

By two o’clock the girl was free to go; the daily agreement with her Grandmother accomplished (one room of the cabin deep cleaned—often including waxing the linoleum—and lunch prepared for- and cleaned up after- her brother and Grandfather’s lunch break from cabin building) she had the afternoon to herself and, without fail, she raced to the beach where she and her friends played and swam endlessly, joyfully and without restraint.

Occasionally the Scientists would see fit to deliver a floating log to their giant sandbox on the shore.  A well-travelled log worn smooth by the ice-cold Shuswap Lake and its mile long journey to the very end.  The girl and her friends would take turns standing on the log, balancing as best they could on the wet, slick surface, counting out the seconds to see who would win.  Or they would clamber aboard like it was a pet horse and float wherever the log wanted to go—it being too heavy for them to maneuver with any reliability—until their toes were too cold to sit still.

*

Greetings Dear Reader from Stanley Lake, Idaho, one of my favorite places on this gorgeous planet:  Tucked away in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area and miles from the popular and over-run Redfish Lake, Stanley Lake contentedly rests below Mt. McGowan (9,860’) and disallows motorized boats so it remains quiet and peaceful, particularly mid-week.

Right now I am enjoying a cup of Chamomile tea (with spun honey), having just finished the world’s best Reuben sandwich:  The basic pastrami on rye with thousand island dressing but also topped with shredded purple cabbage lovingly pickled into a spicy and sweet slaw, a taste combination so divine nothing was lost when, five hours after my first half, I ate the second despite the fact that the bottom piece of rye had turned soggy and bright pink.  This delight came from the Stanley Baking & Company Cafe, whose cinnamon roll was dry and disappointing, but after two long day hikes, my body was craving some fat and carbohydrates.  I ate it all.

Yesterday’s hike, like today’s, was a repeat of a hike I did last year; the good news is that they both seemed much easier this year.  Except for yesterday’s exit.

On the way up to Lady Face Falls, I noticed a tantalizing path veering off to the left toward the inlet of the lake.  Like last year, I made a mental note of it in passing, and continued up the trail.  After four miles the snow forced us to turn back so, unlike last year, I had the energy on the way down to do a bit of exploring.  Time to take the Path Twice Noticed.

It was delightful back there:  Having come from a mile or so of wide-open meadows, the detour offered a nice gravel path meandering through small islands of 4' tall grasses.  Occasionally I could glimpse the river off to the right quietly flowing toward the lake.  After half a mile or so I pulled Opus off to the side and we ventured closer to the river:  Being Spring, it flowed quickly and soundlessly over the dark green reeds and submerged rocks and we sat down to watch the flash of dark shapes flitting from one side to the other.  It was the second time I wished I had my fishing pole.

Since we were clearly coming to the head of the lake, I assumed the nice gravel path would just take us around the shore and back to the campground; we continued until it abruptly ended in a flooded marshland.  Looking across the many fallen trees you could see the boat ramp, offering its welcome return to dry land, a mere thirty yards away.  Opus and I have crossed many a stream on logs so, stooping down quickly to release him from his leash (he crosses much better on his own), we barely broke stride as we each took a log to begin the crossing.

And here’s something obvious:  Just because a log is on top of the water does not mean it will stay on top of the water.

By the time I crossed to Log 2, I noticed that the logs had a lot more give to them than I was used to.  Pausing on Log 3 because I heard a splash slightly behind me, I realized that the logs were bobbing on the water.  Balancing on my log, which was just barely holding its own at the water’s surface, I looked back to see Opus in water up to his cheekbones.  And the look!  He is very expressive and this one did not say, “I love you and will follow you anywhere,” it was more like, “What the fuck?” and “I am never following you again.”

But as my log was sinking, I had no time to offer any aid.  I watched as he clawed himself back up onto the adjacent, half-submerged log, turned his back on me and began to shake. 

What to do?  I could back-track across the logs (maybe) and hike back around which would be another two miles or so added onto my already close to eight, or, and this seemed perfectly reasonable, I could take off my boots, hop into the water and wade to the boat ramp.

Balancing on my own half-submerged log, I proceeded to remove one boot and sock (all those dance lessons came in handy) and, while holding the first boot against a branch, remove the other boot and sock.  Tucking the socks inside, I tied the laces together and hung the boots around my neck. 

Now to get The Dog Who Isn’t Speaking.

I stepped off my log and into the water.  It was about mid-thigh and the coldest water I have ever felt—remember that snow I ran into above?  The cold was a blessing because, as my feet sank down into the silty, muddy, clinging bottom of this marshland, I began to wonder about snakes and glass and sticks and other things that might puncture my feet.  But no need to fear:  I had no feeling in them after the first three seconds.

I turned back to get Opus who, thankfully, sat still as I picked him up but who couldn’t pass up the opportunity to let out a little growl—or maybe it was just him getting his breath back.

Boots around my neck, a soaking-wet, shivering dog in my arms, and a backpack on my back, we set off across the marshy water to meet the boat ramp.  With each sinking step, the water became deeper and colder; when it reached my hips, the possibility of leeches entered my mind. 

But we made it!  Opus, whose legs had clearly had time to thaw, leaped from my arms as soon as the ramp was within three feet.  I felt like I was feeling gravity for the first time as I hauled my numb legs up and onto the ramp.  We sat there, thawing, in the warm afternoon sun, checking for leeches. 

*

The woman weighs more than the girl.

-K

Of Wind and the Sand Dunes

 

When the girl was fourteen, her mother let her paint her bedroom.  The girl selected a bright, sky blue—a color so vibrant her mother suggested she might regret it.  It was called Cerulean Blue.  But she never regretted it; each time she sought the solitude of her room and closed the door, her world at once became vast and serene.  It was her first glimpse of independence and freedom.

*

Greetings Dear Reader from the Spring Creek OHV parking lot in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area; as I type, there are heavy, dark clouds out Beagle’s west window and, out the east window, giant puffy white clouds, against a bright, cerulean blue sky, lolling around the tips of the jagged, snow-streaked mountains.  That’s Idaho for you.  Ahh, giant rain drops just began falling on Beagle’s roof adding a nice bass note to the melodious creek tumbling along a mere twenty yards away.

Why a parking lot?  First, it is no ordinary parking lot:

It has been a day of changing plans, making good, solid, decisions and living by a few safety rules.

But let’s step back to yesterday for a minute and our exciting night at Bruneau Dunes State Park.  I arrived early in the day and was delighted to see my reserved pitch available.  After a quick parking job, Opus and I headed out to hike the dunes.  It was growing hotter by the minute and the air was heavy with anticipated thunder showers so we stopped and sat on the dock at the small lake.  Looking across the water and up to the “large” dune (as opposed to the “small” dune as they are labeled at the park), I watched the wind pick up the top of the dune and reposition the sand, endlessly changing its shape; there was never a moment when the dune was just as it was before.

When the wind began to really pick up, I knew the storm was headed our way so we hunkered down in Beagle to watch it take over.

 

I sat inside, listening to the wind howl, feeling how it buffeted Beagle side-to-side like she was slowly rolling over nice round rocks—she took all mother nature had to throw at us.  I felt safe and protected.  Outside the west window the young tree was blowing wildly; its thin, tender new branches being thrust one way and then another and all the while the young, bright green leaves, strong with youth and purpose, tossing fiercely in the wind, remained firmly attached to their place in the world.

*

Leaving Bruneau Dunes, I made my first good decision of the day:  Carpe Dump’em.  Never pass up a nice, clean dump station when it is on your way out of a campground. So even though it had only been two nights, I cleaned out the tanks and refreshed my fresh water.

First stop:  Silver Creek Preserve.  I had been daydreaming about paddling around in its serene beauty for weeks.  I drove directly there, Beagle in tow, assuming there would be a large parking area at the Visitor’s Center.  Driving up the dirt and gravel road, I noticed a park volunteer working on a trail and so pulled over to ask for directions.  You know me and gravel roads, we do not get along and I was getting very uncomfortable.  He mentioned that the Visitor’s Center is about another mile up the road and, because I asked, he directed me to the two places at which I could put in Supina—one was just on the other side of the single-lane bridge, near where we were standing.

I gazed at the lovely, dark, softly flowing water and noted the only sounds were those of birds.  I saw no other people on or near the water and made my second good decision:  I opted not to put in Supina.  It was too lovely, really, the thin channel of dark green water and tall reeds; Supina with her bright white and aqua colors would ruin it.  Plus, just the thought of turning on my obnoxiously loud air pump in the midst of such serenity made me cringe.  (You didn’t think I hand-pumped it, did you?  Have we met?) 

To top it all off, the drive to Silver Creek brought me within striking distance of the Sawtooth Mountains and they were calling me loud and clear; I could see them in the distance with their sharply etched peaks greedily holding on to the record snowfall.  I am a mountain girl—it was time to get up to the Sawtooth National Recreation Area and camp in my favorite meadow. 

Or not.

Due to the aforementioned record snowfall, my meadow camp was not open.  Here I made a very un-Kit-like decision:  I stopped in at the ranger station to ask about camping.  To my great disappointment, I learned that none of my planned campgrounds had opened yet (usually they open on May 15—I never thought to call.)  This included my next scheduled stop, Stanley Lake.  The ranger mentioned a couple of places open past Stanley toward Challis but that was over a pass and at least another hour or two away.  And it was nearing 3:00—my stop and stay time.  Clearly the disappointment and fatigue were playing across my face as her next suggestion was this spot, the Spring Creek OHV Parking Area, a mere ten miles up the road.

Then came a very Kit-like decision; I didn’t take her advice.  I drove a few miles into a closed, but not locked, campground and found a spot in which I could maneuver Beagle, albeit through a bit of snow.  After settling her in just right between tall dark green evergreens, I looked to my left and saw, twenty yards away, the raging Big Wood River.  Welcome to my Arsenio Hall moment:  Things that make you go “Hmmmm.”  Camping in a closed campground, within twenty yards of an already raging river during the spring runoff from an epic snow year?  And so, my last and best decision of the day:  I drove out, turned left, and found the recommended Spring Creek OHV Parking. 

As a bonus, a couple who had been in the ranger station with me have also chosen this spot—I had no idea until I took Opus for a walk—this “parking area” is a long (at least a quarter mile), wide, gravel area parallel to Highway 75 but set about fifty yards away, and along the perimeter, facing the lively creek, six or so half-moon shaped areas have been developed for times just like this.  So the only thing I can see out any of Beagle’s windows, are mountains, a creek, three-foot snow banks and an occasional car.  It might not be the day I planned but it is a day of which I have dreampt.

*

When the woman woke, she opened her bedroom door, gazed up at the mountains and into the bright, cerulean blue sky, her world at once vast and serene.  Independence and freedom were hers.

-K

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.