October 4, Saturday – Rattlesnake

An hour after a cloudy dawn found me heading south on Washington’s Highway 129, the road from Clarkston to Enterprise. Pat and Chris had told me about their trip down to Wallowa Lake near Joseph with Eagle Cap Wilderness describing it like Jackson Hole and the Tetons in miniature. But Chris cautioned about the infamous Rattlesnake Grade that dropped like a shot down bomber to the bottom of the Grande Ronde River only to switchback back up immediately to gain back all the elevation that was just lost. She didn’t think that my rig and land dinghy could handle the steepness and the hairpin turns. Her warnings even caused me to dream about descending narrow mountain roads and flying off into space through the weak guardrail.
I was now there. I dropped Snee-Oosh into third gear and put my four-way flashers on. Griping the steering wheel in a death lock I popped my ears as the road seem to have no place to go but down Rattlesnake Canyon. Another element to the journey was that there were no other vehicles either coming up the road or down. I was alone but was in a state of total rapture. This was mountain driving at its best. There was nothing in my seven months of driving that could hold a candle to this. I just needed to keep focused and not look over the drop off.
A sign warned “bump”. What they really meant was that the highway was separating from the cliff and was heading for the creek hundreds of feet below. I felt the rig tip to the right responding to the slopping pavement which prompted a direct reflex to head for the other side of the road. Didn’t like that feeling at all.
Finally what seemed like ten miles of snaking in then out, then cross over the ridge line only to double back the road reached the bottom of Rattlesnake Creek to follow it down to the Grande Ronde and the bridge. There situated on the riverbank was a small café with about eight pickup trucks parked out front. I was too much of a weenie to pull over and walk through the door.
This was no scenic drive along the river’s edge like on the Clearwater. The road took the first side canyon and started to claw its way back up to the plateau that it had just left on the north side. The south side of the journey was not as torturous as the north side. The canyon was straighter so one could see the progress further up the canyon end and the doubling back and forth up the canyon wall. This whole down and back up again employed numerous switchbacks and because of the zero traffic and the coolness of the overcast sky I just played the road as it lay. Kick ass driving.
It was like crawling up a table leg and then bang you are out on top. No transition: either climbing or going flat. The countryside was rolling with some wheat fields and forested low ridges. Suddenly there were other vehicles but not on the road. Every pullout or turn out had one or two pickups parked. Hunting season. I saw two large flocks of wild turkeys. Was this their game? I saw no horses or trailers. Correction: I saw one lone cowboy on a grassy knoll near the road along with 400 sheep and three dogs. Wish I had caught a picture of that.
This open range driving was a delight. Ahead I saw storm clouds with light rays beaming through and as I got closer I couldn’t believe my eyes. This was absolutely amazing. Here I am near the end of my circle tour in my neighboring state, essentially my backyard, and there in the clouds are rugged, massive mountain peaks with snow and glaciers. WHAT is THIS?? They’re called the Wallowa Mountains. I have heard about them but had never seen them. Cousin Mac told me that they are an amazing set of mountains. Eagle Cap Wilderness is the protective cloth that holds this mountain range together. The clouds added depth and mystery to their origin. The rolling hills gave way to an open basin containing the towns of Enterprise and Joseph. The towns were surrounded by ranches of the caliber of Wyoming. The mountain range lifted directly from the basin floor making for spectacular scenery. Wallowa Lake stood with one foot in the mountain valley and the other on the basin floor complete with glacial moraines to add to its prominences. A state park of the same name was at the head of the lake situated in the ponderosa pines. This was indeed a nice place and a grand time of year to be here. There was strong evidence that during the summer season this could be a messy place with masses of humanity. Closed down attractions of jet skis, miniature golf courses, go-kart tracks, bumper boats pools, trail rides and a tram to the top of Mount Howard smelled of noise and confusion in a place that deserved better. It was the time to be here.

October 1, Wednesday – Pat Cruver

Pat joined the inner city alternative school a couple of years after I got there in 1969. We became fast friends spending many weekends out in the wilds: Building igloos near Crystal Mountain Ski area and then ski mountaineering to the ridge systems, descending to our snow palace; climbing in the Cascades or Yosemite Valley; glacier hopping on Mount Rainer or ascending Liberty Ridge; cross county skiing on Shuksan. The list goes on. He is a ‘brother’ and a friend – 36 years and counting.

We hooked up the utility trailer to the Chevy and kidnapped Chris, Pat’s partner, from her veterinary clinic then drove down to the Snake River to gather rocks for Pat’s rock garden. My arrival time was spot-on because Pat had load limits. He was restricted to 10 pounds of lifting weigh due to recent back surgery so he was the rock spotter while Chris and I hauled the boulders to the trailer. Half way through the job we took a break to watch the Washington State University Crew row by on the still waters of the dammed up might Snake.
I was continually struck by the contrast of the river bottom terrain and the uplands that dominated the rest of the southeast corner of my state. The shades of browns and grays; of cliffs and rolling hills of the Palouse - incredibly different from western Washington with its evergreen forests and saltwater bays and sounds. With a trailer full of rocks, the pickup got the job done hauling the weight up and out of the river canyon on the rural back road. Hopefully this was the last load of many to complete his project.

On Friday Pat and I teamed up to epoxy paint the centerboard on his San Juan 21. It was fun spending time. It would be really cool to go sailing with him on Lake Pend Oreille someday.

Even though cousin Mac and Sandy with Pat and Chris in Pullman were a strong force to stay, the urge to travel overcame me so at 5 p.m. I headed south toward the Wallowas.

September 28, Sunday – Relatives

The drive down Idaho’s Lochsa and Clearwater Rivers from Lolo Pass was the best river canyon driving I’ve done on this trip. There is constant weaving in and out requiring a focus on speed and cornering backed by superb views of the river. Because the 178 miles takes about 3 and half hours from Lolo to Lewiston, I took two days to do it. In the future I would do this trip the same: going from east to west because it is all a downhill run which Snee-Oosh appreciated.
Upon reaching the combined cities of Lewiston and Clarkston (Idaho and Washington) I was amazed at the very steep long climb out of the L-C Valley onto the Palouse Plateau and into a totally world – a world of wheat.
A sweep in all directions to the rolling horizon took in recently harvested wheat acreage and fields in fallow. Thirty minutes of driving took me through two small towns before entering Pullman, home of Washington State University, friends and relatives. Pat Cruver, my thirty six year friend, let me setup moorage on the street in front of his house. From Pat’s house I went to my cousin Mac’s house to meet my other cousin, Jon, who I last saw fifty-five years ago at an Indiana reunion. It was catch-up time. I don’t have much contact with relatives outside of my immediate family so talking with Jon about family memories was rewarding.

September 27, Saturday – Up and Over

Yesterday was spent all day on my computer catching up on my blog and working on keeping up with the bills. Then we all gathered at Beccah’s house in front of the television set for the presidential candidates’ debate. I think folks know where I stand on the choices so I’ll not spend time waving a placard.
I decided that on Saturday it was time to look west again even though Missoula felt like home. With sadness I bid goodbye to my friends. While they started their day, I pulled old Snee-Oosh’s anchor to continue adding mileage onto the already 14,832 miles traveled on the RV’s odometer. This does not include the 6,005 miles put on the VW which would make 20,837 for a total run. Okay, okay, you want to know what the fuel costs are. I’ll check. If there are no more entries in Ron’s Circle Tour, it’s because I past out from shock. $6,500…………………oh… my…god……………
But wait. My cell phone rang after just 10 blocks of driving in downtown Missoula. Archie wanted to know if I wanted to go to the farmers’ market with him. So I dropped anchor again on the busiest street in the city and spent the next three hours strolling with Archie past the vendors and talking to folks. A grand time with a good friend. It was so nice again to have the flexibility to stop and change direction.
At noon I was back in the big rig heading for Lolo Pass on the Lewis and Clark Trail – Highway #12. It is just a short climb to the 5,235 foot pass from the Bitterroot River but when you top out and enter the Lochsa River drainage and start the drive down, the descent goes on for over 170 miles with no power lines; no cell phone connections to tell you that you have past from the Mountain Time to Pacific Time. After driving three hours in a new time zone, my cell phone still was on Denver time.
Pullman was on my next stop but I collapsed for the night on the Clearwater at a tiny Forest Service campground called Wild Goose near the outpost called Lowell, Idaho just downstream from the confluence with the Selway River. The stern of my land boat was almost on the bank of this amazing river. Idaho, my 34th state on my trip.

September 25, Thursday – Assimilation

Luck had it that Beccah had the day off so we took her grand dog Rufus for a morning walk along the Clark Fork that cuts Missoula in half. The city is filled with youth because of the university and the river walk draws people to meet and greet each other. At the same time Beccah gave me a tour of the downtown, which I had always skipped. It is an extremely comfortable city. In the early afternoon we teamed up with Scott and Sarah and hiked up the grassy ridge that drops down into the town for a view of the Missoula Basin. High up on the valley walls are the remnants of the abandon shoreline of the glacial Lake Missoula of 10,000 years ago.
Afterwards Beccah and I spent time in her front yard transplanting shrubs and roses. I thoroughly enjoyed the one-on-one time I had with her and also love putting in local time in the places that I visit. It deepens the sense of connecting.

September 24, Wednesday – Missoula

Wednesday afternoon brought me to another reunion. I have past through Missoula many times before so the countryside wasn’t what drew me to drop anchor in the town.
I have three families. My soul is based on the love and joy of my true daughters, Caitlin and Hannah. My first family was in Birdsview, Washington in the upper Skagit when Ann of Fergus Falls and I were together. Her young daughters, Rebeccah and Sarah were my introduction to parenting. My last family is of Patsy’s children, Thomas, Roslynn and Marcus of Shelter Bay. They complete my tie to this earth
The bond that was formed with Beccah and Sarah is a lasting one. Plus Archie, their father, and I have also become fast friends. Coming to Missoula in many ways is like coming home. When I arrived, Archie had prepared supper for Beccah, now 44, Sarah, 42 and her wonderful husband, Scott, Marisa, the girls’ niece and me. Cheryl, Archie’s wife joined us later. And the stories flowed. Archie, Beccah and Caleb had just completed a seven day, 215 mile peak to peak mountain bike trip from Telluride, Colorado to Moab, Utah. No easy task with an age spread of 28, 44, and 66 - soon to be 67. Thanks Archie for representing our generation. And thanks for the welcome home.

September 23, Tuesday – Prayer Cloths

Before sunrise I was up with camera and tripod in hand. Again the internal battle welled up inside me. Am I of this place? Or am I of the camera and its lens? I hate this battle. It has been twisting my presence during this entire journey. Who am I? What do I want to take away from this place of senses? Can I have both? Will one suffer over the other? Questions that I didn’t want to deal with as I looked upon this unusual place of beauty.
Maybe I could take a clue from the First People at their Pow Wows. “There are to be no photographing or audio equipment during the Grand Entry. This is a sacred time.”
So I found a location of a pleasing sight and setup my camera and then stood with eyes fixed on the morning ceremony called sunrise.
The spinning earth caused the first rays of light to fall on the top of this monolith 1267 feet above my old friend the Belle Fourche River. As the light moved down the face my reverence changed to that of photographer.
I left the flatland around the base and drove up to the rock field and the trail system. I wanted to experience this place before people arrived, but as I pulled into the parking lot three climbers left their cars with ropes and climbing hardware surrounding their hips like an iron miniskirt. I slowly read the information boards and was impressed with the presentation of the connection of the First People to this mass of igneous rock column. Many tribes have the beacon of rock as a sacred place and the root of many oral stories of its creation. Climbers are asked not to climb the tower in their ceremonial month of June. There are signs asking people not to disturb the prayer cloths or bundles affixed to the trees. And there were many.
I wandered the path along the base constantly looking up the face. I understood why people of all cultures were drawn to this isolated place in the high plains.