[To all of our loyal readers: Yes, we are a little delayed in our updates. Campgrounds don't often have wireless internet. Keep following -- the rest will come.]
Yosemite National Park. Home of “the incomparable Valley.” Expectations were high. Anticipation was great.
Two hours into the park, the only waterfalls in sight were the tears cascading down my cheeks, Aaron had the flu, and rampaging bears had dismembered our Civic.
You see, it happened like this. When it comes to hiking, I can be as excitable as a young child at Christmastime, getting my hopes up so high that disappointment is inevitable. When we arrived in the park, we were confronted with several deflating realities: we discovered that we couldn’t climb Half Dome that afternoon (it is, after all, a 17 mile, 14 hour hike and it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon already); we spied the thronging crowds of people in Yosemite Valley; we had to park a half a mile away from the visitor’s center; all the campgrounds in the park were already full. Things were not off to a good start, and by the time we finished watching “The Spirit of Yosemite” at the visitor’s center, I was tired, hungry, bitterly disappointed, and yes, crying.
My poor husband must have nearly despaired. He had felt slightly nauseous and feverish when we left San Francisco, and the winding, mountainous roads we’d driven to get to Yosemite had done nothing to help his unsettled stomach. What was he to do in such a state with his basket case of a wife?
And then, the bears. There are 1,000 incidents of bear-related property damage in the park each year.
[This display was right outside one of the campgrounds]
Foreboding signs plaster the Valley, insisting that any and all food, as well as anything resembling food (such as tooth paste, chapstick, or deodorant), be stowed safely in bear-proof metal lockers. Trash cans in this place look like man-eating dumpsters.
A ranger explained, “the bears here are smart” (to which Aaron responded later on, “if the bears can use their smarts against us, then why can’t we use our smarts against them? I want a gun ”).
At this point in our trip, our car smells like a convenience store. Even if we could dig out all the “food,” there’s nothing we can do about the chocolate melted under the emergency brake, the coffee spilled in the cup holder, or the hobo pie smell permeating our trunk. As we scoured the AAA book for motels near the park, Aaron confessed that he wouldn’t have slept a wink for fear of rampaging bears if we had camped.
So instead, we lingered in the Valley long enough to watch the setting sun dance on Half Dome and El Capitan.
[Half Dome at sunset]
We then headed south to the Miners Inn, passing a recent landslide on the way that completely covered our road (fortunately, they’d rigged up an army style bridge to bypass the rock heap).
At the Miners Inn, a suite awaited us, complete with fireplace and jacuzzi tub. It’s a rough life out here in the wild.
After a bear-free night, we rose early to greet the day and give Yosemite another chance. The park really is incredible, and despite our rough introduction to it, we could not deny its beauty as we gazed across Yosemite Valley from Glacier Point. At a height of 7214 feet, Glacier Point offers a stunning view up and down the glacially carved valley.
[The Incomparable Valley]
From 1872 to 1968, pyromaniacs kindled a fire on an overhang at Glacier Point each evening during the summer, and promptly at 9 o’clock, they shoved the glowing embers over the edge, creating an impressive 1000 foot “firefall.” It was discontinued because it was an unnatural event creating unnaturally large crowds in the valley, but it must have been quite the sight.
[Cliff from which they shoved the glowing embers, creating a "firefall"]
A couple of miles down the road, we parked, threw some granola bars and water into our pack, and hiked to Sentinel Dome. From the top of this dome, you get a 360 degree panorama of the Valley. While picnicking and reading “A Severe Mercy” aloud at the top, a beggar chipmunk scurried up to our pack. For five or ten minutes, he spasmodically investigated our picnicking site, crawling onto our shoes and playing tug-of-war with me over an apple core. The little feller obviously knew where to find some easy eats, but we were not to be swayed by his cute demeanor. “Keep wildlife wild ” the signs exhort, “Do not feed.”
We had climbed up the back side of the dome, like everyone else. It’s a sloping arch that gradually ascends to the summit. But unlike most people, we decided to climb down the nearly vertical front face of the granite rock. If it wasn’t vertical, it sure felt like it to me as I quiveringly followed Aaron’s surefooted lead. I’ve always found it easier to climb up than down, but the thing is, once you go up, you must go down. And so down we went, and on the way, we enjoyed the first real solitude of our visit to Yosemite.
[Us on top of Sentinel Dome]
[Safely at the bottom of Sentinel's front face]
Once we were safely on the ground, we headed for Mariposa Grove, our first introduction to Sequoia mammoths. The grove is home to some of the largest trees in the world. Most notable: the Grizzly Giant, a whopping 30 feet in diameter at the base. You can’t comprehend it until you see it. Even then, standing right in front of it, you can’t comprehend it.
[The Grizzly Giant]
The oldest sequoias took root before Christ walked the earth, and the biggest ones would block three lanes of traffic on the LA expressway. While not the tallest, oldest, or even widest trees in the world, they are the largest trees in the world, generating a greater mass than any other living object.
[Bachelor and Three Graces -- average sized sequoias]
[They used to drive stage coaches through this tree]
After a fond farewell to Yosemite, we headed toward Sequoia National Park for some really big trees. But first, another free night of camping, compliments of a sketchy county park in Fresno that failed to collect our $5 fee by forgetting to replenish their payment envelopes.
San Francisco. Didn’t know much about San Francisco as we drove toward it just after rush hour, except that my cool Aunt Jean lives there, it has a really neat bridge, and somewhere near is the infamous prison of Alcatraz. Soon I was to discover its renown for Lombard Street, sourdough bread, Ghirardelli Chocolate, trolleys and the bush man.
I have to admit that I was expecting more from the Golden Gate Bridge than it yielded. I think its allure stems more from its wistful emergence from Bay fog than from the view you get by driving across it. All the same, since we had to pay to get across a bridge somewhere, it might as well be the Golden Gate.
After a quick stop at AAA where we gathered up another arsenal of tour and camping books, we aimed our Civic for Lombard Street, “the crookedest street in the world.” San Francisco is not the ideal city for a standard transmission, given its excessive hills. Most roads go strait up and strait down, but for whatever reason, the city decided to endow a one block stretch of Lombard Street with about 12 mini switchbacks. It was pretty fun to drive down it, especially because the thronging tourists aiming cameras at your car makes you feel famous.
We were pleased to discover that, unlike many cities we’ve visited lately, it’s possible to park for free in San Francisco, provided you don’t mind moving your car every 2 hours. We didn’t mind, so after snagging a parking spot, we walked to the popular waterfront district. En route, we picked up the requisite cup of coffee to wield off the chilling fog that lingered into late morning.
The waterfront area boasts many attractions: Fisherman’s Wharf, Pier 39, Ghirardelli Square... We ogled at the many street side stands offering fresh clam chowder and lobster bisque in enormous sourdough bread bowls as we strolled along Fisherman’s Wharf, and then wandered onto Pier 39.
Pier 39 is something of a tourist mecca, made particularly popular by its resident sea lions. At the end of Pier 39, there used to be a marina on the edge of the Bay – at least, until the sea lions took over. Now the floating docks are literally blanketed in barking sea lion, each vying for a position in the sun. Older ones lie lazily on the outskirts, while younger one squirm and flop over top of each other in the middle, often shoving one another into the water. It looks just like a children’s game of King of the Mountain, and we watched for many amused moments as the noisy, absurd looking creatures guffawed and splashed.
Our parking spot time was growing short, but we were also growing hungry, so we bought a crepe filled with avocado, turkey and cheese to eat as we walked to the car. We reminisced about eating crepes from street vendors in Paris after Aaron proposed to me, and decided that Parisian crepes surpass San Franciscan crepes by leaps and bounds.
After moving the car, we returned to the waterfront to finish out our tour. First stop was at a sourdough bread factory that claims its bread is made from the same starter dough that the original bakers used a hundred years ago. They supposedly save a bit of starter every day for the next day’s batch, and have been doing that since the very beginning. Whatever they do, it works, because we got a dang good loaf of “Garlic Volcano” bread – a round sourdough loaf with generous chunks of garlic and cheese inside.
Now, let me tell you about the bush man. San Francisco hosts a homeless population, as most cities do, but some of its members have gotten quite creative in their attempts to pocket a quarter or dime. Take, for example, the bush man. He sits on a 5-gallon bucket on the sidewalk, next to a marina, holding two leafy branches in front of him. If you look straight at him, it’s quite obvious that he’s a man sitting on a bucket with two branches. However, if you are engrossed in conversation as you stroll down the sidewalk, enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of the waterfront, and you glimpse his branches out of the corner of your eye, he looks very much like a bush. These are the unsuspecting tourists on whom he preys. As they near his bucket, he thrusts the branches toward them with a deep, rumbly growl. Had I been his target instead of the clueless tourist a few steps behind his target, I would have jumped 3 feet in the air and landed in Aaron’s arms with a terrified yelp. Happily, I just got to watch everyone else do that. There was an impressive crowd gathered 20 feet beyond the bush man, getting their week’s supply of laughs from his antics and people’s reactions. People were surprisingly good-natured about it, and many of his victims turned into his benefactors as they dropped dollar bills into his hat. It was good, clean, free entertainment.
A trip to nearby Ghirardelli Square yielded some picturesque views of the city and scrumptious chocolate. A leisurely stroll brought us back to the car, and after a brief stop at Coit Tower and a drive through the largest Chinatown, we joined the thousands of other vehicles departing the city at 5 pm.
We had better reason to depart than most of them, though, because we had a dinner date with my Aunt Jean and cousin Wesley. After a tour of Aunt Jean’s delightful condo on the outskirts of San Francisco, we joined Wes at the Outback Steakhouse for dinner. The Outback grilled up their finest eats for us, and we lingered over margaritas and a Bloomin’ Onion, catching up on all the latest news.
Later, at Aunt Jean’s place, we got a briefing on a couple of popular TV shows and enjoyed her generous hospitality for one last night under a roof before another spell of camping. We left the next morning sensing again the rich blessing of family and friends.
For those of you less learned in the ways of Redwoods and Sequoias, as we were, here is a diagram:
Personally, I prefer the Coastal Redwoods of N. California. They are more graceful and dignified.
[My 6'4" husband who is used to towering, not being towered over.]
Since we had a long drive ahead of us from the Redwoods to Vacaville, we did a methodical drive through of the park, stopping at the major viewpoints and walking through Lady Bird Johnson Grove, where the park was dedicated in 1968. The overarching message that the park seemed intent on communicating was that fire is an important part of the cycle of life in the forest. Dying trees fertilize new growth and open up the canopy so that saplings can take root and grow tall.
[Fire has scorched the inside and outside of this Redwood, but it is still healthy, growing and strong.]
[A friendly Canadian guy who seemed quite taken with the Redwoods snapped this shot for us -- just before asking us to take a picture of him and his car in front of this trunk. I guess he didn't have a signficant other.]
And tall they grow indeed The foggy, temperate weather of coastal northern California creates ideal circumstances for Redwoods to grow over 300 feet, from a seed the size of a tomato seed. They used to cover close to 2 million acres, but when the gold rush in the mid-1850's fell through, enterprising miners turned to logging instead.
The trees are, after all, a logger’s dream come true. Many that we saw would stretch nearly the length of a football field if you laid them down on it. Of course, that’s hard to comprehend when you are standing at the base of one of them. It is a humbling experience that impressed upon me the smallness and frailty of my frame and the brevity of my days. Not only did the redwoods tower over me, but they average 500 to 700 years, capping out at 2000.
[Me feeling very small in front of "Giant Tree"]
[Feeling small again...]
After a few hours of gawking, we hopped in our dusty, cluttered Civic for a mad dash to Vacaville, hoping to be there in time for dinner with the Helgesons, our dear friends from former NJ days. We received a warm and genuine welcome to their home, and they poured out hospitality with as much abundance as we remembered from visits to their home at Keswick in NJ. It was a joy to sit at their kitchen table again, bringing back floods of fond memories from middle school days when we and their oldest daughter Christi romped about, rustling up all sorts of fun and mischief together.
[Sunset in Vacaville]
Incidently, they are responsible for first introducing us to authentic Mexican food, which we have sought diligently ever since, not once stopping at Chipotle.
It was a jolly good time in all, reminding us once again of how richly we are blessed by the loved ones in our lives.
Crater Lake, Jupiter-sized cinnamon roll September 12
In the morning we took a brief hike on the Oregon Dunes and then packed the car. Our aim was to get to Crater Lake today in time to take it in and then drive to the Redwoods in northern Calif. Quite ambitious of us. Too ambitious of us we would discover later.
Driving back inland on more back roads, I got momentarily lost while trying to avoid I-5. A friendly, if not very strange, group of locals at a gas station got me turned around. How fortuitous! While retracing our steps I had to pull into an interesting coffee establishment I had seen on my misguided foray down the wrong road. Best baked goods of the trip. Real coffee, roasted on site and brewed to the proper strength and best of all, way off the beaten path. They called themselves the White Horse Coffee and Tea Company. Run by an Irish husband and wife team, they brewed fine coffee and made some of the best pastries I’ve ever tasted.
We bought a cinnamon bun and a ginger cake. The ginger cake was to satiate Alyssa’s cravings for the Williamsburg ginger cake she’d been missing for months. The cinnamon bun. Ah the cinnamon bun. Not a Cinnabon. No, no. Not a sugary volcano. And honestly, the term bun is so inappropriate. I would be more accurate if I referred to it as the cinnamon pie. Easily the size of Jupiter, we could barely finish it and lunch was definitely out of the question. Perfectly balanced sweetness and satisfying “mealishness” (which is why it substituted so nicely for lunch). We’ll tell you how to get there if you are ever driving down I-5 on the way to Crater Lake.
As hard as it was to tear ourselves away from this gourmet oasis in small town Oregon, we were soon back on track to Crater Lake. The turn I missed? I looked. It was not marked. Vindicated.
We drove through beautiful mountainous river valleys, dry and rugged and arrived at Crater Lake in mid-afternoon. In one of the consistent themes of our trip, a nearby forest was all ablaze. Visibility was less than ideal. Thus the crystal clear lake lacked that breathtaking forever view which we’d been looking forward to for weeks. But we were there and we were going to see the lake.
We hiked down the surrounding cliffs to found a couple of guys at the bottom leaping off ledges into the absolutely frigid water. We enjoyed the thrill vicariously. Here we had a taste of the majestic Lake as at this side of the lake farthest from the fire visibility was markedly improved.
We chatted up a trail crew building a stone retaining wall along the path. Young and weathered, they had grown up in a park ranger family. They told us about the park ranger life, living under “the man,” and summers working on the crew. They didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to get back to their work. We tore ourselves away despite their engaging and cynical chatter. We still had to drive half of the loop around the lake.
Along the second half of the loop we investigated whether or not the pirate ship-shaped island was really all that convincing. It was, though the pictures may not bear us out. We also learned of a solitary, intact tree that has been floating through the lake currents for decades. It has a name. I cannot recall it. Nevertheless, I was fascinated by such a historic and eery journeyman piece of driftwood.
You guessed it. We bit off more than we could chew. Sure, we could make it to Redwood NP today–by midnight. As we drove out of Crater Lake we began to renegotiate our night stopover. It would be in a Oregon hotel. We were tired and shuddered at the though of finding a campsite and setting up in the wee hours.
First, we drove for hours through majestic, old growth forest south of Crater Lake. The drive wound through a temple of trees, tall, straight and thick: Umpqua National Forest. The trees grew in formation. Not too close, but close enough that sunlight rarely struck the forest floor. Competing vegetation was scarce. One of the most beautiful forests of our trip.
Leaving Portland behind us, we meandered toward the Oregon Coast, our final destination the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area. We entertained some vague ideas about stopping along the way as we traversed Oregon wine country, perhaps sampling some of the famed Willamette Valley’s famed pinot noir or finding that perfect wine country café for a lazy afternoon lunch.
To our dismay, wine touring in Oregon felt seven times more pretentious than we expected, and well, frankly, I’m too cheap to pay five bucks to taste a bunch of wine that may or may not be all that taste-worthy. Stops in Dundee and McMinnville confirmed our worst suspicions: our brows weren’t high enough nor were our noses long enough for this swirling, swigging and swerving crowd. A little despondent, but pleased have the ordeal behind us, we decided to stop our silly wine tour and make for the beaches.
First though, we saw something intriguing in our AAA Oregon Tourbook. Along state highway 18, near the fringes of wine country something called the Evergreen Aviation Museum and Winery beckoned to us. Something they liked to call the “Spruce Goose.” Ok, we’ll stop and see if it looks any good. (Editor’s note: Aaron feigns ignorance here. As soon as we saw “Spruce Goose,” he immediately knew it was the famous largest wooden sea plane ever built, and he questioned my American citizenship when I said I’d never heard of it.) Maybe they’ll give us discounted admission with our holocaust museum badges.
Right alongside the road we discovered the Spruce Goose in its giant glass case. Such a strange and delicious combination. The Evergreen Company owns a massive aviation museum–in the middle of a vineyard. Inside a voluminous hanger/greenhouse, scores of historic planes are nestled about Howard Hughes’ birch behemoth. Sunshine warms your skin as you walk through this vast glass hanger, gawking at a ridiculous wooden float plane and reveling in the story of a wealthy aviator with something to prove. When we finished our unscheduled tour of the hanger (gratis, thanks to a friendly WWII vet who waved us through we he saw our museum ID’s), we chatted at the wine counter and sampled a half dozen vintages, also free.
We learned that Evergreen owns the Spruce Goose, is growing their aviation museum like a rabbit colony and in addition to making a few tasty wines, harvests thousands of acres of hazelnuts. In fact, I reckon you didn’t know this: Oregon produces 99 percent of all hazelnuts grown in the U.S. I expected to find a Nutella plant around the corner when we left the museum with bags of chocolate-covered and roasted hazelnuts. No such luck.
Leaving the Spruce Goose behind us, we continued to wind our way on backs toward the Oregon coastline. Arriving on the coast near sunset, we searching for a place to make camp. Several depressing RV campgrounds soon crushed our hopes of a night perched high on a solitary sand dune. Evening drew on. We became more despondent as every camping ground we saw was jammed full of RV’s within spitting distance of each other.
Somehow, we stumbled across a state park campground--not two miles away from several completely full facilities–-nearly deserted. Best of all, the sites where well-wooded and set among the sand dunes.
Parking our car at a site, we bolted down a trail towards the rapidly setting sun. We crested the dunes just as the sun began to dip beneath the sand and waves.
But this fine view was not without cost. Alyssa suffered a minor asthmatic moment from our mad dash up the sandy sides of the dunes. So we took it easy and turned in early after our a campfire feast. We had a long road in the morning: a dune hike, drive to Crater Lake, see Crater Lake, drive to California. What would tomorrow hold?
We arrived in Portland later than we anticipated, with the Civic-beach encounter and all. It’s true. Every word Alyssa wrote about my headstrong foray onto the Pacific coast beach is completely true. I’m glad I did it, but I won’t be venturing off the asphalt any time soon.
Tiffany, another college friend, lives and studies counseling in Portland. We spent a a day discovering her city and visiting her church. The late service of course. Tiffany belongs to a church called Imago Dei. The church felt different than most I’ve visited. In Portland, as in much of the Northwest, calling oneself a Christian is to take stance that is at least unusual and most likely unpopular. Imago Dei was a church that appeared to be forging a relationship with a culture largely opposed to the idea of “christianity” via unconventional rhetoric and outreach. I could admire a group of believers who were so intent on reaching their neighbors that they would not settle for the alienation that would quickly follow their ministry had they stuck with the usual terms and methods of evangelical christianity in the U.S.
In Portland, where I’m told it is uncommon to be a Christian, and what’s more there is rarely such a thing as a cultural Christian, effective ministry calls for careful rethinking of how to communicate the gospel to a modern, affluent and oft-pagan setting. I was impressed with this church’s efforts. Since I am not familiar with the in’s and out’s of their ministry or theological underpinnings I can’t speak with any specificity. But I am struck by how very much they wanted to see the gospel change their city and would craft the tools necessary to reach people with truth.
[crafty mobile booth at Portland market]
[Guys playing nifty horn and "crystal ball dancing"]
After church and a trip through a downtown market for lunch, Tiffany cut us loose in the most enormous bookstore ever. Powell’s Books is one city block, four floors high of books, books, books: used and new stuffed together in row upon row of towering, wooden shelves. First thing you need in Powell’s is a map. Then a game plan. Then a long, lazy Sunday afternoon.
If you need a book they most likely have it. Alyssa scored a book on colonial history in Africa that had evaded her for years. I, in typical fashion, compiled a huge list of books that I would have to check out of the library--for two reasons: I have too many books already and I am also too cheap to purchase even the most inexpensive used books these days.
We reveled. We rifled the stacks. We wandered in euphoria. We broke for coffee. We wandered some more and left contented, an afternoon frittered away. Portland was alright.
Come Monday morning the road would call, but for now, our book-thirst well slaked, we settled behind a gourmet pizza and then polished off a Harrison Ford suspense flick.
[View from a garden at Tiffany's school, Lewis & Clark U.]
Beth told us that the Olympic peninsula was an unknown paradise. Time forced us to decide between Olympic National Park and Mt. Rainier/Mt. Saint Helens, and based on Beth’s reviews, we opted for Olympic. Besides, we’d gotten a rare glimpse of Rainier from Seattle, and were convinced that it is enormous.
[Thanks for your hospitality, Beth!]
Off to Olympic then. One of Aaron’s highlights of his life was driving onto the ferry that bore us across the channel. It was big, and it was fun to add a new means of transportation to our road trip repertoire.
[On the ferry's deck -- just long enough to snap this shot]
It was a foggy, damp, bone chilling morning, so we wanted coffee of course. Rumor had it that Port Angeles was a quaint town. Actually, it was a depressing, ramshackle town with odd citizens and no driving regulations that we could discern. We stopped at Mama’s Café, which sounds like a promising place for a cup of coffee, right? While it did offer coffee, it also offered haphazard decor. Located in an old fire house that hasn’t been changed much since it specialized in putting out fires, the place was eclectically cluttered with chintzy Victorian items and tacky diner accessories.
It was a relief to leave Port Angeles behind – although their signage doesn’t make it easy to do. Our first adventure into the park was Hurricane Hill, a gradual ascent to a treeless ridge that gave us a 360 degree panorama of the surrounding mountains. Scanning the endless peaks reminded me of looking out over ocean waves; it was a sea of mountaintops.
[The sea of mountaintops, hazier than in real life, but it gives you an idea...]
We spent the rest of the afternoon driving along the Washington Coast toward an alluring looking campground near the beach. As the day wore on, ominous clouds gathered in the distance. We reached the campground and selected a sweet, secluded site nestled amongst pine and deciduous trees just after the raindrops started splattering on our windshield.
“We’re camping in the rain, We’re camping in the rain, Heigh-ho the dairy-o We’re camping in the rain.”
What does one do when one is camping in the rain? One tries valiantly to stay dry, of course. One huddles under a tarp, eating popcorn and playing Scrabble, and feeling irritated at every raindrop that manages to find its way down one’s neck.
“One” was actually two, in this case. What do you expect when you camp in a temperate rainforest? All in all, it was a very pleasant rain camping experience. Aaron managed to stoke a cozy fire, and by the time we ran out of dry wood, we were ready to toss the tarp over our tent and catch some winks.
[Kelp (we think) on the beach near our campsite]
The rain had mostly subsided by the time we woke up, but everything was thoroughly drenched. Aaron cooked up some tasty eats for breakfast –- eggs and pancakes were on the menu this time –- and then we packed up our soggy camp and headed to the rainforest.
(The cherry on top: we camped for free. When I went to register our site after we’d set up camp, I realized that someone else had already chosen, paid for, and abandoned the site for that night. I guess they didn’t have a theme song about camping in the rain.)
First stop: Hoh Rainforest.
Sandwiched between the ocean and the mountains of Olympic National Park is a temperate rainforest. Enormous Sitka spruces and hemlocks are draped in moss so thick that sometimes it resembles a sweater. Clover the size of a silver dollar and large ferns crowd the forest floor.
[The Maple Grove in the Hall of Mosses]
My favorite part: nurse logs. When a tree falls, saplings that can’t take root in the forest floor fasten themselves to its trunk. They feed off of the decaying wood and grow tall and strong until, hundreds of years later, the nurse log has completely decomposed and huge tentacles of roots that originally wrapped around the log elevate the “sapling” off the ground. In places, there’s a whole row of these that used to line a nurse log.
[A decaying nurse log and "sapling" off shoots. Remember, Aaron is 6'4"]
Unfortunately, the temperate rainforest was cold and damp, so Aaron and I left after a bone-chilling hour in search of coffee.
We wandered around Ruby Beach, where the Pacific surf pounded drift logs and “stacks.” Stacks are rocky monoliths that remain after the water erodes their accompanying cliffs. They dot the coastline like towering islands.
[A stack on Ruby Beach. The crashing water had eroded two big "windows" in the middle of it.]
The beach was covered with small rocks in lieu of sand, and I loved listening to the waves recede through the stones, whishing and crackling its way back to the sea.
[They are serious about their "driftwood" here]
Photo opportunities were numerous, but we still hadn’t found coffee and it was still overcast and chilly. Onward ho. Shortly thereafter, a large latte in hand, we wandered down to another beach where the sun was happily shining and lunched on wild blackberries and Cheeto’s (thanks again Mom ). Mmm... Delicious. Then we bombarded driftwood with rocks until we had illustrated a valuable object lesson about why the military developed larger and larger bombs during WWII, and then continued our drive down the picturesque Washington coast.
Fast-forward a few hours. Now the fun begins. As evening wore on, we left Highway 101 in search of a good spot to see the sunset over the Pacific. Seaview sounded promising. As we approached the beach, we were surprised to see signs advising cars to drive on the hardpacked sand closer to the dunes. Was there a road on the beach? Could we actually drive on it? “We’ve got front wheel drive, we’ll be fine. Go for it ” Aaron confidently cheered. I was behind the steering wheel, and as I timidly edged out onto the sand, quivering and stammering, Aaron kindly offered to drive.
“Yes please.” It would be just my luck to get us stuck in the sand, so I’d rather enjoy the drive from the passenger’s seat.
As we pull out onto the sand, Aaron explains, “the trick is not to stop. Just keep moving.” And we do. “Yes I’ve always wanted to do this ” I hold on tight, snatching a few seconds of video on our camera. “I hope we don’t get stuck,” the driver jokes.
A minute later: “I hope we don’t get stuck...” This time, there’s no joking in his tone. “Crap, we need to go back. I need a high spot to turn around...” Uh-oh. A high wide spot approaches. Aaron swings the wheel. Our two-wheel drive Honda careens in a desperate U-turn. Aaron gives it all we’ve got... But it isn’t enough. We’re not moving any more, but we’ve got a great view.
The thrill of adventure is still pulsing through our veins. We exchange an amused grin, and Aaron opens the door to see how deeply dug in we are. I remember his stories of digging out Tim’s orange truck during muddy four-wheeling episodes in high school, and I’m not worried. Besides, we have the friendly citizens of Seaview on our side.
Within seconds, three high school guys are heave-hoeing on the back of our car. We grumble forward a couple of feet, and dig ourselves farther in. On cue, two dudes in a four-wheeler pull up with a huge tow rope. While they rig it up to the back of our car, I try to snap a few inconspicuous pictures to document our adventure. They haul us back to firm sand and send us off with a friendly admonition not to stop along the way.
[I didn't want to be too obvious, so this was the best I could do.]
As we drive, we pass a couple of other rescue missions out to save ambitious two-wheel-drive vehicles. If it were NJ, the town wouldn’t have let us onto the beach. Here in Washington, they just send a bunch of high schoolers to help us out.
Happily, we still haven’t missed the sunset. We drive to the next town, Longbeach, where 25 miles of beautiful, undeveloped beach wins our vote for the best beach vacation destination. We walk the boardwalk built over high dune grass while the sun sets in red glory.
Now for some dinner...
It just so happens that tonight is a big night in Longbeach. It’s their “Rod Runner” event, and hundreds of carefully polished hot rods are cruising and revving their way down main street. We find a crowded diner and get a couple of burgers, and then elbow our way through the masses to find some chocolate mousse chip ice cream before leaving town.
It was like an all-American date, and as we consumed greasy fries and root beer in the diner, Aaron observed that there is probably no other country where you could experience an evening like we did. Sometimes, it is really fun to be a burger-eating, hot rod-gawking, ice cream-licking American.
It’s funny that some of the places I was most excited to visit were somewhat disappointing in the end, like the Canadian Rockies. Others that I barely noticed were on our itinerary have wowed and amazed me. Seattle was one of those.
We arrived at Beth’s on Wednesday night. Thank goodness for Aaron’s college friends. We received yet another warm and gracious welcome, and we savored some sweet conversation as we caught up and compared life perspectives post-college and post-getting-married. Beth is waiting to welcome her Navy husband back from a 6-month assignment at sea. Wow. Aaron and I have barely been married long enough to be separated for 6 months, so that seems like an eternity to me. Beth and Kip seem to have handled it with much courage and wisdom, however, and they’re relieved that next summer’s assignment will “only” be 4 months.
After dinner at Chipotle, at Aaron’s request and great satisfaction (we’d been looking for Mexican eats throughout Canada, to no avail. A city with no Hispanic population/food is hard to understand for Americans, but Vancouver has a grand total of two “Mexican” restaurants), we mapped out a game plan with Beth’s help to explore Seattle the next day.
They say that Seattle is cloudy, foggy and rainy from early September through late August. True to its reputation, as we approached the city, fog and mist enveloped the landscape. It was not good weather for climbing the Space Needle, but it was great weather for drinking coffee.
Accordingly, our first stop was the historic, waterfront Pike Place Market, founded in 1907, where we planned to sip coffee and wander the colorful and noisy market.
It was a photographer/painter’s dream come true: a bustling crowd milling through a metropolitan of vivid colors, textures, sounds, scents and shapes.
It was my dream come true: organic dried cantaloupe, cascades of freshly picked peaches, and bundles of bright peonies.
It was Aaron’s dream come true: fresh-caught halibut and hot donuts.
Ah, the donuts. Aaron gawked. There was no negotiation on this one. It would be the full dozen please, for a mere $1.85. But first we needed a cup of coffee in hand. We made a bee-line for the closest coffee shop and then backtracked to the stand where hot mini-donuts plopped out of the donut-making machine four at a time. A baker’s dozen later, still sipping our Seattle’s Best organic coffee, we felt as round and happy as the little pastries themselves.
Onward to Pioneer Square where we purchased tickets for Bill Speidel’s Underground Tour. Now, we are pretty cheap tourists. We pay for coffee regularly, and for food when there are no granola bars within reach, but that’s about it. However, we heard fabulous things about this tour, and it is the only way to access the underground city. It was well worth it and we thank all those who recommended it to us.
After the Great Seattle Fire in the late 1800's, the citizens were eager to rebuild. The city, however, initiated a seven to ten year program to raise the level of the city eight to thirty feet by pulling the nearby cliff down over the mud flats. They made this decision in light of some serious structural deficiencies in the city. Reports of 7-foot “geysers” of sewage erupting out of “crappers” (toilets) gives you an idea of what they were dealing with.
The merchants, however, insisted on rebuilding immediately instead of delaying their profits for seven years. Their complaint is understandable, but what is not understandable is the solution concocted by the city. They would make it a bi-level city. Merchants rebuilt their stores and sidewalks at the original, swampy level, while the city rebuilt the roads 8 to 30 feet above the sidewalks.
[Underground storefronts and sidewalks]
Imagine being a woman wearing a six foot wide skirt trying to maneuver her way up a ladder with groceries in one hand and a baby in the other while horses fling mud and manure down at her as they drive by on the elevated road. The city’s genius proved implausible, and eventually they rebuilt the sidewalks overtop the original ones at level with the second floor of the buildings. Underneath, a maze of old sidewalks and storefronts remained, breeding all manner of immorality and corruption.
["Skylight" from street level down to underground sidewalk]
It was a great tour, followed by a great lunch of Vietnamese Pho (pronounced “fuh,” so please articulate clearly when you talk about it). Then an accidental Occidental Park encounter. As it turned out, we happened upon the park on the day of its grand re-opening. Artists and craftsmen gathered to peddle their wares, a huge inflatable movie screen showed “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” and homeless people and cheap tourists enjoyed the free (and scrumptious) gourmet cookies and Starbucks coffee.
Aaron and I sat at a sweet stone chess/checkers table long enough for him to beat my tail twice at checkers.
[He didn't really have to think this hard to beat me]
A visit to a top-notch bookstore added another volume to our library, this one Aaron’s pick on the African front during WWII. Next, a stroll along the waterfront led us back to Pike Place Market, where we visited the original Starbucks and caught the city’s free street car for a tour of Chinatown and the waterfront.
By the time we returned to the market, our parking was nearly expired and we were exhausted, so we called it a day and waved at the glowing space needle on our way back to Beth’s.
The night outside Banff was chilly, though nothing to get excited about after days of freezing or near freezing temps. We camped in a mountain valley campground, mostly full of RVs.
[Sunset from our campsite]
At this point it was abundantly clear: we were the youngest people “on the road” in North America. Once Labor Day clears the calendar the retirees are out in full force, posh RV in tow. Despite a higher concentration of camping vehicles than we prefer and grass campsites instead of woodland, we enjoyed the well-run and clean grounds of IRVin's before a leisurely start the next morning.
The drive to Vancouver fell, unfortunately, on Labor Day. The traffic was reminiscent of I-95 northbound on a Sunday evening in the summertime. But the slowdown didn’t begin until we were on the road for four hours, about one hour away from Vancouver. I tuned the radio to an AM news channel only to discover that there was an overturned SUV on the main bridge into the city. Alyssa, ever the faithful navigator, had us off the highway (which was now completely stopped) and onto an alternate route in minutes. I hate to say it, but as we sailed over the unclogged bridge, I loved beating all those Canadians into their own city. It felt good.
We stayed with college friend Anneli for two nights and saw the sights in the city. Anneli and her four gracious housemates extended a warm and generous welcome to us, offering us delicious food, comfortable accomodations, excellent conversation, and a wealth of inside tips about Vancouver. Their hospitality was doubtless the highlight of our visit to Vancouver.
We walked Stanley Park, the downtown waterfront vista with a huge forest larger than Central Park.
[Two views from Stanley Park]
We strolled through the city's Chinatown, apparently the largest of its kind save in San Francisco. Here we saw what we affectionately refer to as "gecko-sicles." Take a gander.
[Weird, eh?]
We sampled the local Greek fare, chuckled at the city’s decision to build a tall, skinny tower with restaurant at top, and stared in dismay at the hundreds of down-and-outs, mostly heroine addicts.
Which brings me to the beauty of the Canadian recycling regime. If you’ve never been to Vancouver you’ve probably never see their trash cans. Each one has a divided rack in the front to hold cans and bottles to be recycled. At first glance you’d think that it would fill up and then no one could recycle. That is what I thought at least. There are only about six little recycling receptacles on each trash can after all.
[Vancouver trash can with recycling apparatus]
But here is where the Canadian tendency towards charging fees comes into play. The homeless people wander around Vancouver during the day collecting all of the cans and bottles out of the trash can holders in order to bring them to the local collection center where they then cash out. I realize this happens to a degree in some American cities too, but nothing like in Vancouver. There were homeless gents everywhere, emptying out the can and bottle holders, and keeping the recycling system humming.
The beauty and sneakiness of it all pleased me tremendously. Without really letting on, the Canadian government was transferring millions of dollars of wealth from the beverage purchasing classes to the street people. Brilliant. No bureaucratic middlemen, no squeezed, complaining middle-class (after all, participation in this wealth transfer system is completely voluntary), and an otherwise unoccupied street people with something to fill their time and occasionally their pockets. Nice job Canadians.
Oh, and best of all, garbage gets recycled.
[We spent hours on these electric buses, making our way around Vancouver]
That evening we dined with Anneli’s fantastic housemates. We learned plenty. First, Vancouverites take sushi very seriously. While I am accustomed to sushi pieces being one or two bites (depending on the variety), their sushi rolls were as big around as a baseball. These enormous rolls are eaten by the dozen by some of Anneli’s roommates. I wish I would have taken a picture of the sushi feast that was devoured that night. The two guys from the basement each ate two or three times what I could get down (which included BBQ eel, and several salmon pieces as long as my hand). The experience was astonishing.
We sat around discussing Canadian politics, views on the world and the States, and the glories of the “Tim Tam Slam.” Before turning in, we experienced our first ever Tim Tam Slam (delicious) and grew to appreciate some of the nuances of Canadians and their way of life.
In the morning we grabbed some coffee from a nearby shop recommended by Anneli and then bid farewell to Vancouver and a very hospitable couple of days in Canada. Well, we sort of bid farewell. We turned around soon enough and returned to the coffee shop to retrieve a forlorn purse. Thankfully, we realized this lost purse before crossing the border.
Before leaving Canada, let me make a recommendation should you ever travel there. “The Real Canadian Superstore.” It’s like a Super Walmart, except way better. Aisle after aisle of bulk products (from baking soda or flax seed to ground cumin or gummybears) kept us in the store for well over the five minutes we intended to spend. We’re hoping to see one south of the border someday. If you ever hope to experience a Tim Tam Slam, you’d better hope so too, cause that’s where we get our Tim Tam’s.
Ah, back to the good old USA. And for my politically incorrect statement of the day, I’ll admit it, I think Canada doesn’t hold a candle to the States.
Oh. Canada. I almost forgot. Poor timing on our part mixed with undeservedly high expectations had us underwhelmed at turns during our Canada sojourn.
Calgary, destination number one, has a tall, thin, pointy building with an observation deck/dining establishment at the peak. Yeah, you and every other city we’ve since visited (read: Seattle, Vancouver, Las Vegas). Fortunately, brother Jon snagged us a way-discounted room in the downtown Marriot so that we were sheltered from Calgary’s otherwise less-than-handsome face.
[I don't know either. Saw this near Calgary.]
Each morning on the road is a new adventure. Dodging Calgary’s burgeoning homeless population in search of a scrap of breakfast morsels reminded us of our dining experience the night before. A small bar and grill advertised buffalo burgers and we wandered in, curious to sample the local bison. The clientele carried on unrepeatable conversation and the restaurant didn’t actually have buffalo burgers. That was a cheap gag to get hungry Americans off the side walk and to a table. Starving, we begged for anything they could scape off the grill. We would never return, but we would linger long enough to enjoy a folksy band that kicked up some Celtic tunes and drowned out the buffoons a table away.
And so breakfast. Still bisonless, we would settle for pastry and coffee before launching off for Banff National (Canada, mind you) Park. Did I mention our bad timing? Labor Day weekend is as much a three-day weekend in Canada as it is in the States. On the road everyday is the same, until you end up in a natural wonderland outside a major city on a national holiday.
I felt slightly ill while we drove the hour or so from Calgary to the town of Banff, a tourist mecca inside the park. A touch of flu perhaps. Arriving in Banff found us jammed, bumper-to-bumper with every last warm body from Calgary. I almost threw up. No, seriously, I was feeling awful at this point. Our expectations of a solitary retreat to the Canadian Rockies were beginning to look more like a summer Friday on the Garden State Parkway. So we did what any rational human beings should do when faced with national park gridlock: get out. We headed to Lake Louise, a half hour north, where the crowds seemed thinner. After a short stroll around the lake, we continued up to our intended campground.
[Lake Louise]
Wish you could have been there. Completely packed, 100 out of 110 spots taken by 6pm. Eight of the ten remaining spots were in a suspicious-looking semi-circle around a single occupied site. Three college guy cars were squeezed into the site and a half-dozen dudes were blasting their Canadian tunes and stacking beer on the picnic table. Beer is, after all, the reason we retreat into the untouched wild. Seriously though, I counted AT LEAST six 24 packs of Corona.
Who drinks that much beer?
Good point, college guys.
We settled into another vacant spot across the campground and then paid the ridiculous Canadian camping fees. Apparently you have to have a permit to turn the lights on in Canada because we had to buy one for $7.80 just so we could build a small campfire. That’s on top of the $18 we pay to pitch our tent on their dirt. At least we had a spot to sleep, and for that I am glad.
But these Canadians were always looking for a chance to soak you. They charge you two cents for every bottled item you buy: they call it a recycling fee (more on the recycling regime later). Then they charge you another “refundable” fee for your bottle deposit. Buy a 20oz Coke and pay approximately 35 cents in misc. fees. Gosh. Now I know why they can’t stand Americans: we must always be complaining about the cost of drinking a beverage across the border.
The morning brought warmth and sunshine. We packed up and readied to hike a trail in Japser National Park (contiguous with Banff to the north) that would take us up a river bed into the mountains and past seven waterfalls. First we drove up the icefield parkway along the Columbia Icefield, a mass of ice flowing out of an enormous alpine valley and forming dozens of glaciers. Hiking up to the most famous, the Athabasca Glacier, brought back memories of a childhood stop here while driving to Alaska. We skipped the $34/person glaciermobile tour. No room in the budget I'm afraid.
[Athabasca glacier from 50ft]
[Athabasca glacier from 50mm]
Our hope was to be out of the park by 4pm, because at that point we would have to pay another $18 for the daily fee. Another fee. We didn’t get out by four, the river trail was far too long and beautiful and besides, we had an hour drive to get out the northern entrance.
To our delight, we learned that they didn’t check our receipt on the way out. Thus our 5pm exit did not cost us another $18. Crossing out of Banff landed us in British Columbia, a day's drive from our next destination: Vancouver, BC.
[Mountain Goat, spotted in Jasper National Park, Canada.]
