Category Archives: Days in My Life

I don’t just sit around and watch TV.

Kayaking the Columbia

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Not quite as exciting as the title might make you think, but very pleasant.

I spent a few hours yesterday kayaking in the Columbia River near my home in the Wenatchee area of Washington.

I bought the kayak a few months ago and, in all honesty, have only taken it out a few times. It’s nothing special — a yellow Costco special nicely outfitted for one person on calm water. My first outing was in one of the Quincy lakes with a friend way back in May. Other brief outings followed. But then I got my little jet boat running and started taking that out instead.

A few weeks ago, while out on the jet boat salmon fishing with a friend in the mouth of the Wenatchee River, I noticed a number of people taking kayaks and paddle boards up the Wenatchee River. The spring flow was long over and it hadn’t rained hard enough lately for floodwaters to raise the flow. Indeed, we couldn’t get much farther upstream with the jet boat than the second bridge because of low water. Low water meant slower flowing water. Slow enough for people to take a leisurely paddle upstream.

That’s what gave me the idea to do the same.

Yesterday I headed out with that in mind. I had a five hour window before I had to be back at the helicopter for an afternoon charter flight. Just enough time for a paddle and a shower.

Washing the Kayak
Washing the kayak is as easy as standing it up in the corner and hosing it out.

I started off by washing the kayak. It had been stored under my RV for over a month and I didn’t want to think of the creepy crawlies that might be in there. Better to just hose it out. So I propped it up against a corner of my RV, connected a spray nozzle to the outside shower, and gave it a good rinsing, letting the water drain through a normally plugged hole on one end. I let it dry while I packed a tote bag with a few things.

Mirror View
I can keep an eye on the kayak in my truck’s mirrors.

Loading the kayak into the back of my pickup isn’t difficult. I lift one end into the bed over the closed tailgate and push it as far forward in the truck as I can. Then I angle the body of the kayak diagonally across the bed. I secure it in place with a bungee cord attached to a corner tie-off hoop built into the truck. It doesn’t move more than an inch in either direction during the drive; I can watch it in the truck’s mirrors.

One of the things I absolutely love about this area of Washington is the sheer variety of outdoor activities available. The Columbia River is a source of many of these activities: boating, fishing, swimming. There’s even an 11-mile bike/hike/skate trail that goes down one side of the river, crosses a bridge, comes back along the other side, and crosses a second bridge to return to a starting point. Parking is free in the loop trail parking lots or any of the parks along the river in Wenatchee or East Wenatchee. There are three boat ramps within a 20-minute drive of my home — all free with plenty of trailer parking.

Where I Kayaked
The area where I kayaked on Sunday.

I decided to put in near the swimming beach at Walla Walla Point Park, which is about 15-20 minutes away from my home. The beach is protected from the river’s main flow by a sort of jetty with a path on it. You can see it in the lower-right corner of this satellite image. I chose this area because I could back the truck pretty close to the water and the little lagoon was a good, calm spot to launch.

I dragged the boat across the grass and down the beach to the water. I put Penny’s life jacket on her and stowed my life jacket and tote bag in the boat. Then I put Penny in the boat, pushed off a bit, and climbed in after her. A moment later, we were gliding across the lagoon. It was about 11 AM.

I could feel my arm muscles working hard right from the start — but not nearly as hard as they had to work when I exited the lagoon and got into the Columbia River’s main flow. There was some shallow water then and the river rushed over it. I had to paddle hard to get through it. I started to think that I’d never reach the mouth of the Wenatchee River about a mile or so to the north.

But then I got through it and into calmer water. I still had to paddle hard to stay ahead of the current, but it wasn’t a frantic paddling. I stayed close to shore and the water got calm. I might make it after all.

The satellite image above shows the river with the water at a higher level. Northwest of where I put in is an area that reminds me of the marshes in Newark, NJ. You know — where the NJ Turnpike goes past the Meadowlands? The difference here is that the water isn’t tidal. The little side inlets exist only as long as the river’s water level is deep enough. Although the image shows lots of watery passages between trees, on Sunday there was only one channel that went through to the mouth of the Wenatchee.

I know this because I found it. I didn’t have a map or satellite image. Instead, I just paddled close to shore, saw an opening in the trees, and decided to explore. What I found was a calm water passage surrounded by trees and water weeds and inhabited by ducks and herons. The water was glassy smooth and shallow — in some places barely deep enough to paddle over. There was the tiniest bit of current to convince me to keep moving forward, that water had to be coming in from somewhere.

Penny on the Kayak
Penny rode on the forward deck as I paddled us through glassy smooth water.

It was sort of magical in there. Quiet and private, with the occasional sound of a motorboat out in the main channel of the river to remind you that you weren’t paddling the remote Amazon. Trees hanging over the narrow parts of the waterway gave us cooling shade every now and then. Bubbles and bits of debris on the water surface cast shadows on the sandy bottom, assuring me that the water was indeed moving in the opposite direction I was.

Near the end of the waterway, we met up with a man on an inflatable boat with oars. He was alone but talking to someone. At first, I thought it was me. But then when we got near him he laughed, held up his smartphone, and said that he was sharing a virtual float trip with friends in Georgia.

The world is getting smaller.

Parked on a Log
Parked up against a log, looked down the Wenatchee River and across the Columbia River to the far shore in East Wenatchee.

The waterway dumped us out at the mouth of the Wenatchee River. I turned left and started paddling up that river. There wasn’t much current, but there was more than there had been for the past 30 minutes. I paddled upstream on the south side, pausing when I reached a log jutting out of the water. I pulled in upstream from it and let the current take me downstream until the kayak was lodged against it. I rested there and tweeted a photo (as I so often do) and took in the calmness of the rivers around me.

How can anyone not like this area? It’s got the dry air of the desert but is full of water. It rains, but not too often. It gets hot, but not too hot. It gets cold but not too cold. And all around are beautiful mountains and forests and orchards and farms and rivers and lakes. Boating, fishing, hiking, motorcycling, biking, wine tasting. Beautiful sunrises and sunsets, magnificent thunderstorms, star-filled skies. Quiet, private places to live and work. A major city less than an hour away by air or three hours away by car. And people who are friendly and happy and youthful — even if they’re not exactly young anymore.

How did I live in Arizona for so long when I had this to tempt me for five consecutive summers?

(Well, I know the answer to that question but we won’t go there.)

Finished with my rest, I paddled across the Wenatchee River into one of the water channels on the opposite shore. I paddled around on that side down one channel and up another before finding a third to take me back out to the Wenatchee River again. Along the way we saw Canada geese, seagulls, and killdeer. Penny barked at the geese.

I crossed the Wenatchee River again and headed back into my quiet waterway for the return trip to the park. This time some kids were walking along one of the sandbars, catching fish in a cutoff milk jug while a man paddled a canoe. As I paddled past him, he said, “I see your dog is getting you come exercise.” I laughed and told him she was guiding me.

Back out in the main flow of the Columbia River, I let the current do some of the work for me. I had to paddle hard to get around the tip of the jetty and back into the swimming lagoon. There were lots of people there now, kids swimming in the designated area, dogs fetching balls in the water nearby. I paddled up to shore and we got out. I ran into a friend of mine and chatted for a while before dragging the kayak back to the truck.

By 2 PM, I was back home prepping for that afternoon’s flight. It had been another great day out.

The Sprained Foot

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Here’s how it happened and how it is three weeks later.

I didn’t blog about this when it happened. It may have been embarrassment. Or it may have been because my life got very busy for a while with house guests and day trips and life in general.

It was on Monday, August 5. I’d spent much of the day — the third or fourth day in a row — out at my future homesite in Malaga, clearing out invasive weeds along the driveway and the road in front of my house. It was hot, exhausting work, but I felt good at the end of each day. Like I was working toward a goal. (Am I the only person who feels that way while making progress on a project?)

That particular day, I’d been using a gas-powered hedge trimmer to cut weeds. I’d rented it from Home Depot. The tool did the job, but not as easily as I’d hoped. And it was a bitch to get started. I returned it that afternoon, contemplating the purchase of a chainsaw again.

On the way home — it was probably about 5 PM at the time — I stopped at the supermarket to buy groceries. Because I had so much junk in the truck I did something I very rarely do: I put the 5 or 6 grocery bags in the truck’s bed.

That was my mistake.

When I got home, I discovered that the grocery bags had shifted around in the back of the truck. So I lowered the tailgate and climbed up to gather them together. They were the usual plastic shopping bags and I grasped them by their handles with four in one hand and two in the other. I walked to the back of the truck, stood on the edge of the tailgate and crouched down with my butt about four inches off the tailgate. I put my right hand down on the tailgate and launched my feet off the back of the truck.

Keep in mind that this little jumping maneuver is something I do regularly. The distance to the ground is only about 3 feet. By crouching and launching like that, I minimize the impact of the landing. I do it all the time. I’ve never had a problem.

Except that Monday. As I launched my feet off, one of my feet — maybe my right? — got hung up on the rough surface of the spray-in bed liner. It could have been because I was tired from a full day at work, but it was more likely complacency — not thinking about what I was doing because I had done it so many times before. I didn’t make a clean jump. I realized this as I was falling and tried to recover.

I don’t know exactly how I landed, but I suspect my left foot took most of the impact on an angle. My left knee and the palms of both hands hit the gravel next. The grocery bags crashed all around me.

I immediately thought of the Tito’s vodka and Maker’s Mark bourbon what were in the bags. It would be a real shame to break the bottles of $50 worth of liquor.

But pain interrupted those thoughts. Lots of pain. I was hurting badly. I rolled over on my back and began taking inventory on body parts. One by one they checked in OK. Except my left foot. That was just registering pain.

I sat up and gathered the bags together. Neither bottle had broken. Whew!

I sat for a moment more. My left knee was bleeding but the palms of my hands were fine. That could have been worse, I thought to myself.

It was. When I tried to stand up, I realized I couldn’t put any weight on my left foot.

Oddly enough, I didn’t think much of the problem at first. After all, we’ve all gotten hurt in silly little accidents and after the initial shock wears off, everything works fine. I figured that my foot or ankle — whatever was sending those pain messages to my brain — was just whining a bit longer than usual.

In the meantime, it was hot and I was thirsty. I managed to get to my feet and sort of hop over to my RV. My porch was a bit of a challenge and I honestly don’t remember how I got up the stairs. I put down the bags of groceries and poured myself a glass of lemonade with lots of ice. I drank it all and refilled it.

My ankle was still sending those pain messages. What was up with that?

I sat down on the steps that lead up to my bedroom and pulled off my shoe. My foot seemed to explode into a swollen mass. I couldn’t move my toes.

This was not good. There was a chance, I realized, that I may have actually broken something.

I pulled out my phone and called my friend Kathryn, who lives in the orchard.

“What are you doing?” I asked once the greetings were over.

“Nothing much,” she replied. “Just hanging around, enjoying the weather.”

“Could you do me a favor?” I asked.

“Sure. What do you need?”

“Could you drive me to the hospital? I think I might have broken my ankle.”

The tone of the conversation changed immediately to once of concern and urgency. A few minutes later, Kathryn and her husband Donn were out in front of my trailer with their truck. I used a stepladder as a cane to meet them on the driveway and managed to climb aboard.

They took me to a local clinic, which they thought would be faster than a hospital. Donn fetched a wheelchair and wheeled me in. I did the paperwork at the desk. And then they waited 90 minutes with me. (I have such great friends.) Kathryn came into the examining room with me to keep me company. I was x-rayed, poked, and prodded. It was pretty obvious that the problem was in my foot — not my ankle. The verdict came from the nurse practitioner who’d been assigned to me.

“It’s not broken. It’s a sprain.”

“That’s good,” I said, relieved.

“No, it’s not,” she corrected me. “For people over 40, sprains are usually worse than breaks. They take longer to heal.”

She wrapped me up with an ace bandage, gave me a prescription for pain meds, and told me where to find crutches at 7:30 on a Monday evening. She also gave me a sheet with the standard RICE advice.

My friends took me to Fred Meyer. Kathryn went in and returned with a set of crutches. Then we went to Olive Garden for dinner (their choice). I had a terrible drink and an excellent meal, which I only ate half of. By the time I got home, it was after 9 PM. I was glad I’d remembered to put away the yogurt before leaving.

Sore Foot
The day after my mishap was spent in bed with my foot elevated. But it swelled up anyway.

In the morning, I was amazed by how bad my foot looked. I took a picture and put it on Facebook. I spent much of the day in bed, trying hard to keep my foot elevated above the level of my heart.

Do you know how hard it is for me to sit still when I have things to do? It was a miserable day.

The next day, I had things to do and I wasn’t going to let my swollen foot stop me. So I wrapped it up grabbed the crutches, and got on with my life.

Of course, during this time I was still on contract for cherry drying. I had some concern over whether I’d be physically able to fly. After all, flying a helicopter requires four limbs, preferably healthy ones. But I put those concerns to rest on Wednesday when I fired up my helicopter and flew it down to Wenatchee for some scheduled maintenance. Fortunately, my helicopter doesn’t require much pressure on the pedals.

I admit I didn’t follow the RICE advice to the letter. Although I slept — or tried to sleep — with my foot elevated on two pillows, I didn’t ice it as often as I was supposed to and I certainly didn’t rest it very much. I was on two crutches for just two days and then just one crutch for a week. After the first week or so, I realized that it looked almost normal when I got out of bed but swelled up to epic proportions within a hour of being up and around. The swelling included my foot and ankle — indeed, I had a chankle. I ditched the crutches entirely about 10 days after my mishap. That’s when I flew my helicopter to Seattle to pick up a friend and did the tourist thing around Pike Place Market and the Space Needle. It was pretty swollen that night.

I’ve turned down five invitations from friends to go hiking. You have no idea how frustrating that is.

But I’ve also been out on my boat three times. Not much walking involved there. Once, while fishing, I sat on the swimming platform and dangled my feet into the Wenatchee River. The nice, cool water was soothing.

I’m now starting week 4 of healing. I’ve found a good compromise. When I prepare to go out for the day, I wrap my foot firmly in the ace bandage, put a sock over it, and put on my good walking shoes — ironically, the same ones I was wearing when the mishap occurred. The shoe gives my foot the support it needs; it only hurts when I step on uneven surfaces. Because the flexing motion of walking also causes pain, I have a pronounced limp when I try to walk quickly. But around my home, it’s not that bad. Yesterday, when I unwrapped it, it didn’t even look very swollen.

If I behave myself and stay off the hiking trails, I’m pretty sure I’ll be 100% healed by the end of September. That’s a long time, but I just have to deal with it.

As for jumping off the back of my truck — well, I think this little incident has reminded me that I’m not 22 anymore. We’ll see if I remember this lesson in the months and years to come.

A Walk in the Woods

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Another day, another hike with new friends.

One of the few things I miss about Arizona is the hikes I did with the Phoenix Atheist Meetup Group (PAMG). This 1700+ member group has a small subgroup that goes hiking in Arizona almost every single Sunday of the year. I began hiking with them when I returned to Arizona in September 2012 after my fifth summer work season in Washington and hiked with them periodically throughout the autumn, winter, and spring months. With them, I explored the area around the Superstition Mountains, Sedona, Prescott, Flagstaff, and even Wickenburg. They’re a great group of people — smart, friendly, educated, and open-minded. I made a lot of new friends that last winter in Arizona and already miss some of them very much. If you live in the Phoenix area and are looking for a group to hike with, I highly recommend meeting up with them. Tell them Maria, formerly of Wickenburg, sent you.

Although there are plenty of hiking opportunities here in the Wenatchee area of Washington, finding folks to hike with wasn’t quite as easy. Wenatchee is a much smaller city than Phoenix — although it’s much larger than Wickenburg — and there aren’t as many meetup groups. I did join a few that sounded promising. Among them is the NCW Freethinkers, which is based in nearby Cashmere, WA. (NCW, by the way, stands for North Central Washington, the commonly used label for the area where I now live.

At a recent pot luck BBQ meetup in Wenatchee, I told the group about my hikes with PAMG. Another member had been thinking of hiking as a group. He rose to the challenge and came up with the hike we did Sunday, to Clara and Marion Lakes.

Getting There

Lupine
Lupine is still blooming in the higher elevations near Wenatchee. A splash of sunlight illuminated this plant while leaving the forest behind it in relative darkness.

Western Monkshood
According to the National Audubon National Society Field Guide to the Pacific Northwest, this is Western Monkshood.

Heart-Leaf Arnica
According to the excellent Washington Wildflowers iPhone app, this is Heart-leaf Arnica.

Purple Monkey Flower
This Purple Monkey Flower was past its peak of bloom alongside a stream. Still beautiful, though.

Getting there was quick and easy for me — I was less than 10 miles away.

The trailhead is at the Mission Ridge ski resort’s lower parking area. Just take Squilchuck Road until it turns into Mission Ridge Road and keep going to the end. I currently live about two miles off Squilchuck so I was likely the closest hiker.

The road winds up into the canyon, past orchards and into the tall pines. There are amazing views back into Wenatchee from most bends in the road. Along the way I passed the turnoff to Beehive Lake, which I’d explored by Jeep only a few days before, and another trailhead I’d hiked with Penny the previous year. It’s amazing to me how much there is to do outdoors so close to where I live.

I arrived right on time after handling a few bee-related chores earlier that morning. Four other hikers were waiting for me. There were two other dogs, too — a 120-pound Rottweiler and a smaller Border Collie mix that reminded me of my dog, Charlie, left behind in Arizona. (Poor Charlie probably spends far more time curled up on a dog bed in front of a television in a Scottsdale subdivision than running around, off-leash, in the woods.) While I chatted with the other hikers, Penny tried to make friends with the other two dogs. The Rottie ignored her completely while the Border Collie immediately began playing with her.

I could tell then that it would be a good hike for both of us.

The Hike

When it became clear that a sixth hiker who’d RSVPed would not be showing up after all, we hit the trail. It immediately began a relatively steep climb with occasional switchbacks in a dense alpine-like forest. There were pine and other trees and dense underbrush. The air was cool and the sound was hushed. Wildflowers typical of the Pacific Northwest — which I still need to learn! — added splashes of blue, yellow, red, and white along the way.

I took up a place near the rear of the group, stopping more than a few times to take photos along the way. Although my uphill hiking endurance is far better now than it was when I was a fatty, I still need an occasional rest stop to catch my breath on steep climbs. Framing shots with my camera offered a good excuse to do so.

The Rottie and his owner led the pack, setting a brisk pace for all of us. Meanwhile, Penny and her new friend, now off-leash, began a chasing game up and down the trail. I swear those dogs covered three or four times the terrain as the rest of us.

The trail leveled off when it intersected with the Pipeline Trail. That’s also where it crossed a small rushing stream of snowmelt coming from somewhere high above us on the mountain. After taking a short break near the stream, we continued the climb on the narrow trail up to the lakes. Either it wasn’t quite as steep here or I was getting used to it because I had no trouble keeping up and needed fewer and fewer photo/rest stops along the way.

After a while, we came upon an open marshy area. We thought it was Clara Lake, dried up. But a post-hike examination of my route (tracked via GPS) shows that it was just an unnamed marshy area.

Near Clara Lake
Silly us. We thought this beautiful, flower-filled marsh area was a dried up Clara Lake, but that lake was still ahead of us on the trail.

Clara Lake Shore
Along the shore of Clara Lake.

Swimming Rottie
Not only did the Rottweiler (appropriately named Tanker) like to fetch sticks, but he didn’t mind swimming to get them.

Penny the Adventure Dog
Penny, as usual, kept ahead of me on the trail. It was such a pleasure to walk in the cool shade of the forest. When I lived in AZ, I dreamed about hiking in places like this.

The lake we came to a short while later was Clara Lake. Surrounded by tall pines and bordered on one side by a slide of volcanic rock, the small lake featured clear clean water and a collection of floating logs. We paused for a while and watched Mike’s dog swim to fetch large sticks, then moved to a shady area on the other side of the lake for a rest and snack. Some of us wandered around the vicinity.

Because we thought we were at Marion Lake — the second of two lakes on the trail and our intended destination — we didn’t go any farther. Looking at my GPS track now, I see that another 1/4 mile up the trail would have brought us to another lake. Oh,well. I think I’ll make that another hike, perhaps in the autumn when the trees are changing color. There’s another trail to the lakes down from a forest road that’s not quite as long or steep.

We headed back the way we’d come a little while later. It was a lot easier — almost all downhill. But steep! My knees really felt it. (I fully expected to be in serious pain the next morning — especially in my calves — but my body surprised me and took the workout without complaint.)

As usual, the hike back was quicker than the hike up. We passed several mountain bikers along the way — they were all walking their bikes up the steep trail. I wondered where they planned to ride and whether the ride down would be as wild as I envisioned. I also thought of the trail’s winter use — for snowshoeing. That’s a sport I might need to explore if I decide to spend winters here. I’ve already decided to get a new set of cross-country skis and explore trails in the Leavenworth area.

Back at the trailhead, the group split up. Although I was invited to join the others for beers at a local microbrewery, I decided to head home for a shower and a little R&R instead. I’d been running myself ragged for the past week and needed a break.

Besides, I’d promised a winemaker friend that I’d come visit her for a tasting that weekend and the weekend was almost over. I still had plenty on my calendar for the day.

My Jeep Gets a Name

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Courtesy of the State of Washington.

I’ve owned my 1999 Jeep Wrangler since June or August 1999. I bought it new from a Scottsdale dealership. The man who would become my wasband was away (again) at the time, so I made the purchase alone and picked it up with a friend.

The Black Junker

It wasn’t my first Jeep. I’d bought the first used, at my wasband’s recommendation. “Don’t buy a new one,” he’d told me. “It’ll just get all scratched up and you’ll be upset.”

So I bought a used black hardtop Jeep without air conditioning from one of his friends in New Jersey. We drove it across the country to Arizona together. I got sick along the way — it may have been altitude sickness from our drive through Colorado or dehydration because I simply don’t drink enough — and we wound up spending the night in Winslow, just four hours short of our final destination. (Or maybe I’m confusing that trip with the time we drove his old Mustang across the country?)

I sold the hard top and traded the full doors for half doors. We pulled out the boom box speakers — which I gave away to my neighbor’s kids years later. I may have replaced the stereo, which never worked quite right. I don’t remember. Frankly, I don’t want to remember that vehicle.

All I do remember is that damn thing absolutely refusing to start more than a few times when I drove it around town. If it wouldn’t start in front of the supermarket, it might not start 15 miles down a two-track, out of the cell phone service area. I wanted a Jeep for off-roading and it needed to be reliable. This one simply didn’t fit the bill.

Some advice is just plain bad. (I shudder to think of what my life would be like now if I’d taken all of my wasband’s advice over the years. After all, it hasn’t done much for him, either.)

I sold that black piece of junk before owning it even a full year.

The Red Jeep

Jeep and Windmill
When I “rediscovered” photography in the late 2000s, I used the Jeep extensively to explore the desert with my camera. Windmills were one of my favorite subjects.

I replaced it with a brand spanking new 6-cylinder, 5-speed manual 1999 Jeep Wrangler with a soft top and air conditioning. It was “loaded stock” meaning that I got the best transmission, suspension, tires, etc. that were still considered stock. Afterwards, I added door steps, installed by my wasband. (I’m surprised he didn’t submit a bill to the court for labor.) I also bought a bimini top, but I only used it one season.

Jeep in Snow
My Jeep had no trouble driving 5 miles to a mesa top on unplowed gravel roads in 20 inches of snow.

I gave that Jeep quite a workout over the following years, taking it as far as Moab for some slick-rock climbing. I beat the crap out of it regularly. It’s been on back roads around Wickenburg and near Prescott and at the Grand Canyon. It’s been in deep snow and across flooded creeks. It’s been places I probably should not have taken it. But then again, isn’t that what a Jeep is for?

Most of the year, the side and back windows were off of it. It got rained on and in a lot.

Jeep Roads
Jack the Dog was a frequent companion on my Jeep excursions.

Sometimes I took off the doors. In fact, I lost the bolts that hold the door hinges on. Every time I took the doors off before driving up to Prescott it would rain or hail.

Oh, yeah. I scratched it, too. But I haven’t shed a tear about that. Arizona pinstriping is what those off-road scratches are called and my Jeep wears them like a badge of honor.

When I went away to Washington in the summer starting in 2008, I missed it. After all, I was stuck driving a big diesel pickup for months on end. I’m a small vehicle person; I like a short car with a narrow wheelbase and tight turning radius. The Jeep was all that and more. It was always good to come home to it and get it back out into the desert. This past winter, in fact, I even joined a local Jeep club and joined them for a few desert drives.

Jeep Drive
My Jeep, with me and Penny the Tiny Dog aboard, was one of about two dozen 4WD vehicles on this rainy drive through the desert near Wickenburg’s Vulture Peak in January 2013.

The Jeep Moves North

Through Nevada
You don’t know straight, flat roads until you’ve driven north or south through Nevada.

I drove the Jeep from Wickenburg, AZ to Quincy, WA in May 2013. It was not a drive I was looking forward to and it was not a drive I enjoyed.

You see, a real Jeep is plenty of fun on dirt roads and two-tracks out in the desert or in the mountains, but it’s no fun at all on highways. My Jeep’s soft top tended to flap at highway speeds. The interior was loud. The ride was stiff.

I made it tolerable by wearing earbuds attached to my phone and listening to podcasts and music along the way. Penny just slept. I wondered whether the 1200 miles with noise like that would damage her hearing, but she seems to be okay.

Once I got the Jeep to Washington, I drove it almost all the time, leaving my big truck parked. It wasn’t a gas mileage thing — my truck gets way better mileage than the old Chevy I drove in previous years. It was just such a pleasure to drive something small and nimble. Something easy to park.

And, of course, once I got the Jeep to Washington, it made sense to register it there.

Alf the Jeep
Here I am with Penny just yesterday after a drive around the forest not far from my home in Washington.

And that’s how it got its name: Alf. See? It’s right on the license plate.

Yes, the State of Washington issued plates for the Jeep starting with ALF. That’s Alf. Obviously that has to be the Jeep’s name.

You see, unlike some other people I know, I don’t name my vehicles. How can I? No name jumps out at me so I simply don’t give them a name.

But this name did jump out at me. And it’s easy to remember. And, somehow, it’s suitable for an off-road vehicle that gets the crap beat out of it regularly.

My Jeep has 52,000 miles on it and it’s 14 years old. I think we’ll be sharing a lot of adventures — now up here in the Pacific Northwest — for many years to come.

A Friend Drops In…Literally. Again.

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Why drive by when you can fly by?

At 6:15 Friday morning, my coffee was brewing into my cup and I was scrambling eggs for Alex the Bird and Penny the Tiny Dog. I heard a helicopter in the area and assumed it was the same spray pilot I’d seen earlier in the week working an orchard across the canyon. But when I went to the door to take a look, the helicopter I saw was not outfitted with spray gear.

Schweizer 300
My friend Woody on approach for landing in his Schweizer 300.

It was a Schweizer 300 and I knew my friend Woody was at the controls.

I tried calling him on the phone. He answered but I couldn’t hear his voice and didn’t know if he could hear me. I talked anyway: “Land on the gravel driveway of the house next door and I’ll make you breakfast.”

Penny Greeted my Guest
Penny greeted my breakfast guest as soon as he was on the ground.

He circled. I didn’t know if he’d heard me. So I came out and started pointing at the intended landing zone. One way or the other, he got the message. Moments later, he was setting down at the top of the driveway, only a few feet from the edge of the canyon. Penny ran over to greet him, even before he’d shut the engine.

I waited until the blades had stopped spinning before greeting him myself. After assuring him that the helicopter was fine parked there — my neighbor was away and not expected back for a long while — I led him back to my RV, the “mobile mansion,” with a promise of coffee and breakfast. I gave him my untouched cup, just brewed, and he found room at the table. I started a second cup brewing, made Alex and Penny their eggs, and tidied up the table. Then I got out the bacon and some eggs and made us breakfast while we chatted.

Woody is working with me — well, sort of for me — on my cherry drying contracts. A client with a 90-acre orchard came online on Wednesday and I still have another 40 or so acres under contract throughout the area. If my big client called for a dry, it would take me more than 2 hours to finish his orchard, thus leaving the others to wait. That would not be acceptable to them so it was certainly unacceptable to me. So I put out my feelers and found Woody’s company, based in Arizona and willing to make the trip to Washington for just the 8 days of work I could offer. They managed to get a short contract before starting with me and, if they’re lucky, they’ll get another contract when I release them.

Woody and I took a quick look at the orchards he might be called to dry from the air on Monday. On Tuesday, when he and his companions joined me at a Pot Luck BBQ I hosted for a Meetup group in Walla Walla Point Park, I gave him GoogleMaps-generated location information for each orchard. But this morning, when he woke to cloudy skies, he thought it would be a good idea to scout them again from the air in case he got called today. He was scouting the orchard across the canyon from me when he decided to fly by.

And that’s how he ended up at my dining table, sharing bacon and eggs with fresh-brewed coffee with me at 7 AM.

We chatted through two cups of coffee, then headed out in my truck. I had to go to the property I’m buying in Malaga to fetch a large wooden pallet I’d left there for my bee hives. I decided that the pallet, covered with a rug, would make an excellent “deck” for my poor man’s hot tub. He wanted to see the property, so he came along for the ride. I think he was impressed. (Everyone who has seen the property has been impressed — with one notable exception that’s yet another indication of his poor judgement.)

Back at the mobile mansion, Woody helped me pull some nasty staples out of the wood and position the pallet beside the tub. He told me that he’d seen another hot tub like it at a skydiving place he used to spend a lot of time at. (I knew the idea wasn’t original.)

Penny in a Schweizer
Penny is comfortable in any helicopter.

We talked about going down to the Rocky Reach Dam later in the day with another friend. Something else to kill time. (We’d spent much of the previous day on my boat in the Columbia River.) I had some errands to take care of in Wenatchee — I wanted to experiment with a hive split — so he headed out. I walked him down to his helicopter and posed Penny in his seat for a photo before he climbed on board.

Penny and I moved back as he started up. I videoed his departure, amused that he did the same drop-off maneuver that I usually did when departing my landing zone 100 feet farther up the hill.


Woody’s departure from the hillside landing zone is remarkably like mine: dipping off the side and speeding away.

It was nice to have a friend drop in by helicopter — especially so unplanned. (I love spontaneity and surprises!) But I’ll be honest: it wasn’t the first time.

And I don’t think it will be the last.