Tag Archives: travel

Last Day on the Road

Posted on by
2

I finally make it to Quincy.

[When we last left our intrepid traveler, she’d settled down for the night in a campsite alongside a stream in Oregon, where she sipped good coffee and listened to a light rain falling on the roof of her travel trailer. You can read about the first day of her trip here and the second day here.]

I’ll be the first to admit that although I pushed hard and covered a lot of miles on the first day of my journey from Wickenburg, AZ to Quincy, WA, I pretty much slacked off on the second day. I blame that on two things: I was tired from a poor night’s sleep and the rainy weather made driving difficult and tedious. So when I pulled into the campsite in an Oregon State Park, I didn’t really care that I’d only covered about 400 miles that day when I should have been able to make it all the way to Quincy.

But that left my third day with a very easy goal. I was only about 250 miles from Quincy and could easily cover the distance before lunch.

I got back on the road at 7:10 AM. It was still overcast and rainy and the clouds seemed to dip down onto the highway. I drove through a light mist, wondering if it would become real fog. There weren’t many other vehicles on the road, which was a good thing. There was construction at various small bridges, bringing the road down to one lane. If a bridge was on an uphill climb, whoever was behind me was forced to slow to my climbing speed, which was seldom faster than 40 miles per hour. I think the truck was more tired than I was.

After a climb to the Blue Mountain Summit, I started seeing warning signs about an upcoming 6% grade. The signs were kind of funny. The first proclaimed, “First Warning! 6 Mile 6% Grade Ahead!” The second said pretty much the same thing as a “Second Warning.” Huge signs set forth maximum speeds for trucks with 5 or more axles — the really heavy ones were limited to just 18 miles per hour. This was obviously serious business.

Before the hill, there was a turnoff for a scenic view. I could see that the clouds ended just ahead and could imagine a view from the mountain over a broad valley. I knew that if I’d been in my Honda without a 3500-lb trailer behind me and a parrot in a plastic box next to me, I would have pulled off to take in the view. But in my current situation, all I wanted was to get to Quincy and set up camp. So I kept driving.

After a “FInal Warning!” sign, I began the descent. The cloud bank ended abruptly at the top of the hill, revealing a huge area of rolling green hills. In the distance, I could clearly see the bulk of Mount St. Helens rising, snow-capped, out of the ground. A tiny cloud hovered near its summit; it might be steaming again. The view was breathtaking, but I had to concentrate on the task at hand: keeping the truck at or below 50 mph on the steep downhill grade without burning up the brakes. I passed a truck and two runaway truck ramps. About a dozen cars passed me. Then I was at the bottom, continuing northwest toward Pendleton.

You may have heard of Pendleton, OR — it’s where Pendleton blankets are made. A piece of trivia for you: Pendleton blankets were much prized by the Navajos, who commonly wore blankets as part of their clothing, in the late 1800s. The Fred Harvey Company convinced the Navajo people, who are known for their excellent weaving, to begin weaving rugs instead of blankets — so they could trade the rugs for Pendleton blankets. These beautiful, soft wool blankets can be found in just about any trading post in the west.

I’d been in Pendleton once before, during my 2005 road trip, eager to take the factory tour. Unfortunately, the factory was closed that week for vacation. (My luck.) I was not going to try again that day.

But I did need gas and I wanted to top off the propane tanks. I’d be using propane to cook in the camper and I didn’t want to run out, since I couldn’t lift the tanks to put them in the truck. I watched the highway signs and pulled off at an exit with a Shell station that had both gas and propane. I was the only vehicle at the pumps and both attendants came out to service me. (Oregon, like New Jersey, is full service fueling only.) One guy pumped the gas while the other actually cleaned my windshield. Then I repositioned my rig and one guy added 6 gallons of propane to my tanks. I was surprised; I thought it would have taken more.

Then I was back on the road again, continuing northwest on I-84. Past Hermiston, I got on I-82 northbound. I crossed the Columbia River for the first time just downstream from the McNary Dam. The water approaching the bridge seemed to boil with currents and columns of mist rose from the downstream side of the dam. The Columbia was at flood stage because of snowmelt in the mountains.

Now I was in Washington state.

The area around me had become more and more agricultural after descending from Blue Mountain. It was a mix of farm field and orchards — including what I’m pretty sure were cherry trees. Most of the Columbia River Valley is cultivated. While Idaho may be famous for potatoes, I passed a sign somewhere in Washington that proclaimed that local county produced more potatoes than anywhere else in the country. Take that, Idaho.

I made the mistake of taking directions from my GPS to get through the Richmond area. The GPS, which is set up for off-road travel, didn’t give accurate and timely directions, so I missed a turn. I wound up detouring through Benton City to catch State Route 225 north to State Route 240. This farm road (225) was narrow and wound through hills. Pretty, but not the kind of road I wanted to be dragging my rig through.

I took State Route 240 to State Route 24 to State Route 243. Along the way, I crossed the Columbia again, passed the community of Desert Aire (which features a private runway), and the farm community of Mattawa, which is also known for its cherry orchards. Route 243 followed the Columbia River and I could easily see the flooding — just the tops of the tall green trees that had been on the shore poked out through the water. Then I got onto I-90 eastbound. Twelve miles to George, where I exited for northbound State Route 281. Just five miles left.

I pulled into the parking lot for the Quincy Golf Course at 11:45 AM.

The site I’d asked them to hold for me was occupied. I didn’t really care. I was tired and just wanted to get the camper parked, disconnected from the truck, and set up. I spent the next two hours doing just that.

Now, the next morning, I’m about 80% settled in. The camper is completely set up, with both beds extended. I put both mattresses on the back bed where I’ll sleep and set up Alex’s cage on the front bed. I’ve got a full hookup here, so I’m all plugged in. This will become important when it gets hot and I need the camper’s air conditioning. It also makes it possible to use the microwave, which our off-the-grid camping makes useless. It’s weird having unlimited access to water — I’m so accustomed to conserving it, especially when I’m away from home. It was a real treat to take a good, long shower. I also put out the awning, which will give me shelter from both sun and rain.

The campground’s five hookup spots are now full. I’m very glad that I got here when I did.

When Your Cell Phone Can’t Connect, Try Texting

Posted on by
Comment

I discover that when my cell phone can’t connect, text messaging may still work.

As I reported in another blog post, I was recently stuck in a location that had an intermittent cell signal. At one point, I’d have 3 or 4 bars (out of 5). But a moment later, without even moving, I’d have the No Signal symbol in its place.

It was vitally important that I communicate with my husband, Mike, before settling down for the night. If he didn’t hear from me, he’d worry and he might take some kind of action. I needed to tell him where I was and assure him that I was okay.

I was a campground, where I hoped to spend the night. Although I was towing a pull-trailer and could have disconnected the trailer from the truck and driven to a place with a better signal, that would have been a huge pain in the butt, especially since it was raining.

After multiple attempts to connect by phone, I started wondering if I could use text messaging. I use that feature of my phone quite a bit — mostly to post tweets on Twitter when I’m traveling. I seldom text anyone else. But on that trip, I’d gotten into the habit of sending a quick text message to Mike to update him on my location. Now, with a spotty cell reception, I started wondering if I could communicate with him by text message.

So I tried it. The phone said I had no signal, and when I tried to send the message, it warned me that the message had not gone through. But it also said that it would attempt to send the message as soon as it got a signal. And less than a minute later, the message was sent. I sent a few more to fully explain my predicament and assure him that I was all right. Then I went about my business, setting up camp.

I didn’t receive a response, so I started worrying that perhaps he hadn’t received the messages. So I composed another message asking for a response and walked over to where the reception seemed better than at my site. I got two messages from him. Two-way communication had been established. Mission accomplished. (Really, though.)

Mike’s not big on texting. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that he hates it. He’s not a good typist on a computer keyboard, and his phone isn’t set up for texting since it doesn’t have a alphabetic keypad. (He has a Raz’r; I have a Treo.) So his texting skills are minimal. I know he wasn’t happy about communicating with me like this, but it did work, so I don’t think he can complain.

As for me, I just find it interesting that I could send and receive text messages — with a delay — when it was impossible for my cell phone to make a voice connection. I’m going to keep that little tidbit in my bag of tricks in case I find myself in a similar situation.

Idaho is Prettier than Nevada

Posted on by
2

And Oregon is, too.

[When we last left our intrepid traveler, she was making herself at home in a 21-foot travel trailer parked in a casion parking lot in West Wendover, NV. You can read about the events leading up to this point here.]

I went into the casino at 5:30 AM in search of a cup of coffee. The espresso stand looked open, but it wasn’t. I asked a person who worked there what time it opened and she said 7 AM. I was about to freak out when I realized that my watch was on Mountain Standard Time and the casino was on Mountain Daylight Time. It was really 6:30 AM. I only had to wait 30 minutes.

After a peek across the street to see if there were another option — there wasn’t, unless you count McDonald’s, which is evidently getting high marks from some folks on their coffee; I’m not that brave — I went back to the camper. I busied myself finishing up the blog entry for the previous day’s drive. I’d just connected to the Internet with my Treo to upload the post when the phone rang, cutting off my connection. It was Mike. He has a real knack for calling when I’m using dial-up networking. By the time we finished chatting, my computer’s battery was nearly dead and the inverter I’d bought to power it in the camper wasn’t working. So the post didn’t get posted.

I went back into the casino, where I spent $5.08 for a 16-ounce “latte” with an extra shot of “espresso.” Note the quotes. I’m putting these terms in quotes because that’s what the casino called this stuff. It’s not what I received. In fact, it was barely drinkable.

Inside CamperI went back to the camper and packed up my bedding. The camper’s two queen-sized beds fold out the front and back of the camper and resemble pop-up camper beds. Although it’s not difficult to set these up, it really wasn’t worth it for a night of sleep in a parking lot. So I left the beds folded up and opened the sofa to a bed. This wouldn’t have been bad if the bed were long enough for my 5’8″ height. I’m thinking it’s about 5 feet long. I slept diagonally with my legs curled up. (This photo, taken with my funky fisheye lens, makes the camper’s interior look a lot bigger than it is. But it’s roomy enough for me. In this shot, the slide-out is fully extended; I usually only put it out halfway for overnight stays. You can see the closed-up front bed in the middle of the shot.) I didn’t have a good night’s sleep, but it really wasn’t bad, given the short bed and the fact that the parking lot’s lights made it bright as day outside all night long. Even the blinds couldn’t keep the light out. In the morning, when I woke up, I had to actually look out the window to see if it was daytime.

I got Alex back into his travel box — he spent the night in his cage — and loaded him into the car. A while later, after topping off both fuel tanks, we headed out. Oddly enough, it was exactly 7:05 AM. The same time I’d left Wickenburg the day before.

My route that morning took me west on I-80 to Wells. The 58 miles took about 90 minutes, mostly because of all the high elevation climbing we had to do. You see, the mountain ranges in Nevada generally stretch from north to south. When you drive north, as I did most of the day before, you’re driving on gentle slopes in valleys. But when you drive west, you have to climb over the mountain ranges in whatever mountain passes are on the way. That morning, there were three mountain ranges to cross. On one of them, the truck actually downshifted to first gear with my foot on the floor, unable to give me more than 35 miles per hour. Fortunately, I did better downhill.

The day was cloudy and it drizzled. When I approached Wells — which may have provided a decent place to spend the previous night after all — I saw that the mountains to the south were covered with fresh snow. In fact, it may have still been snowing.

I headed north on U.S. 93 again. The terrain was changing subtly. By the time I got to Jackpot, NV, on the border of Idaho, it was hilly and green and rather pleasant. I stopped at Cactus Pete’s Casino for breakfast, putting Alex in the camper while I went inside. It had a nice breakfast burrito with a cup of truly undrinkable coffee.

It was unfortunate I didn’t get all the way to Jackpot the night before. As my friend Stan had told me, Jackpot was a very RV-friendly place. It would have been a pleasant overnight stop.

Another refueling, then back on the road. I crossed into Idaho. Soon I was driving through farm country. At Twin Falls, I screwed up and followed U.S. 30 instead of 93. Although 30 was more direct, 93 would have gotten me to the Interstate a lot quicker. But the last 10 or so miles before I finally got on the Interstate was actually quite pleasant, winding alongside a river with lots of little waterfalls. (Maybe that’s what that “Thousand Springs” on the map was all about.)

Meanwhile, the weather remained variable: mostly cloudy with scattered rain showers. By 11:30 AM, I was feeling as if I needed a nap. That’s not a good thing when you still have about 400 miles to drive. I started thinking about maybe not getting all the way to Quincy by nightfall. Maybe an overnight stay in a nice campground would be better. Someplace with an electric hookup and WiFi.

By the time I got to Boise, it was pouring. I kept going. When I reached Nampa, I got off the highway and fairly stumbled into a Wal-Mart parking lot. I wanted to stop at a Wal-Mart or a Target to buy a cheap vacuum cleaner for the camper. You know, the kind on a stick. My mother used to call them “electric brooms.” I figured a walk around Wal-Mart might wake me up a bit. And maybe it would stop raining while I was in there.

I turned out to be a Super Wal-Mart, with groceries. I thought I’d take the opportunity to pick up some food for the camper, just in case my overnight stop wasn’t anywhere near shopping or dining. I bought some soup and eggs and orange juice and cereal. That kind of stuff. Then wiper blades for the truck and the vacuum. I brought it all out to the camper and stowed it away. Then I studied the map and came up with a plan — I’d press on and see how I felt by 5 PM. If I wanted to stop for the night, there were a handful of state park campgrounds I could try.

So I fueled up again and headed back out on I-84. It was about 2:30 PM and the rain had let up considerably.

A while later, I passed into Oregon.

I don’t know if it was my tiredness or my lack of enthusiasm for Nevada’s dull scenery or the changeable weather, but the ride into Oregon on I-84 was beautiful. Rolling green hills, farmland, irrigation canals, streams, rivers, snow-capped mountains, trees, rock formations. The interstate twisted through all this, with the inevitable climbs to slow me down so I could get a good look. Unfortunately, the rain came down very hard sometimes, making for bad visibility and tricky driving. It was also making me tired.

I pulled off the highway at Baker City and consulted the map. There was a state park with a campground about 50 miles farther up the highway. I got back on the road and homed in on it.

Hilgard Junction State Park is a tiny sliver of land alongside a creek just off the freeway. It offers primitive camping that includes a paved parking spot, picnic table, and fire pit. There’s a water faucet every 3 or 4 sites and a garbage pail every 2 sites. There’s also a restroom with cold running water. A campground host watches over all this. The fee: just $8/night.

Camper At Hilgard Junction State ParkI drove in to check the place out. The campsites were right on the creek. I drove down the little road toward the turnaround loop at the end. The sites were not pull-throughs, so I’d have to back in. The hell with that, I thought. I found one with a nice, long driveway and pulled in head first, parking the truck’s nose facing down the creek. This pointed the camper’s front door right up the creek. I just fit in the space. Works for me.

There’s one major drawback to the campground. I cannot get a steady cell signal. This almost caused me to leave — if I didn’t check in with Mike, he’d worry and I’d get scolded. But as I walked toward the self-pay station and tried unsuccessfully to telephone him, I managed to get a few text messages out and get one in return. It seemed the signal would hold just long enough for sporadic text messaging. I’d succeeded in communicating with him so he wouldn’t worry and I could stay.

A while later, Alex and I were settled into the camper. I perked a small pot of coffee — of course I have a percolator! — and made some soup. I enjoyed both while sitting on the camper step, looking out over the creek. My closest neighbors, two sites away, made their dinner on the fire and retired into their Minnie Winnebago with their two dachshunds. I made my sofa bed with an extra blanket on it, did the dishes, and fished out the 300 watt inverter to charge up my laptop. I even ran the heat for a while to get the dampness out of the camper.

As I finish writing this, rain is falling gently on the camper roof. Alex, in his cage, seems to be settled in for the night. I’m less than 200 miles from Quincy. While I probably could have made it there if I drove hard, this one last night on the road is like a little vacation before I get to work.

Life in the Slow Lane

Posted on by
1

Quickly makes you lose your mind.

Were you one of the three thousand or so cars that passed me today? I was driving the 1994 Ford F150 pickup with the bird cage stand in the bed, towing a 21-foot travel trailer from Wickenburg, AZ to West Wendover, NV.

The truck can pull the trailer, but barely. I’m lucky if I can get the speed up to 65 mph. Where the speed limit is 75 mph, everyone whizzes past me. Heck, they whiz past me just about everywhere, since I can’t keep the speed above 50 if I’m going uphill.

And there were lots of hills on this trip.

We — Alex the Bird and I — departed Wickenburg at 7:05 AM. The route, which was determined by Google Maps and adjusted to avoid Hoover Dam traffic, took us up U.S. 93 to I-40. We took the Interstate through Kingman, AZ and exited at Beale Street. Normally, we’d continue north on 93, but since I didn’t feel like dealing with a TSA search of the camper prior to crossing Hoover Dam, we hopped on State Route 68 to Bullhead City, crossed the Colorado River at Laughlin, and continued west on State Route 163. Then north on U.S. 95 to I-515 through Las Vegas. Then I-15 north to U.S. 93 north to S.R. 318 to U.S. 6 to U.S. 50 (briefly in Ely, NV) to U.S. 93 to U.S. 93A to West Wendover, NV.

Whew!

We were in the truck for 12 hours. I made one bathroom stop and two fuel stops, one of which included McDonalds. This was the first time I’d eaten at a McDonalds in at least three years. I hate myself for loving those fries.

I’ve never before been so aware of hills. The truck does okay on level ground and it even does pretty well going downhill. But get it on a slight incline going up and it’s an absolute dog. I mean, at times, I couldn’t even keep 50 MPH. When it dipped below 45 MPH, I had to turn the flashers on, like an underpowered, overloaded big rig climbing a hill.

Did I mention that quite a few of those passed me, too?

It’s funny, because everyone warned me to “take it slow” and “watch out for speed traps.” Hell, I’m more likely to get ticketed for driving too slow than for speeding.

Of course, there were exceptions. The ride down 68 to Bullhead City had a 6% downgrade for about 12 miles. I think that’s the only time I’ve ever been on a stretch of road with two runaway truck ramps. To save the breaks, I popped the truck into 2nd gear a few times to slow down. Worked like a charm. I had to repeat this exercise after a grueling climb up the other side of the Colorado River Valley on 163 when there was another section of road with a 6% grade.

I stopped for fuel at Searchlight, NV. Poor Alex seemed shell-shocked. I changed out his food and his water and closed him back in his box. (Alex travels in a lucite box with air holes, a perch, toys, and bowls for food and water. It’s really important to keep his box out of the sun when traveling.) I went into the camper to use the toilet and noticed that the fridge wasn’t running right. Later it seemed to be okay.

Then on to Las Vegas. I got a phone call from one of my cherry drying connections just as I neared the network of freeways there. When I hung up, I realized I was on I-515. I was supposed to be on I-15. But since the two highways merged north of the strip, I stuck with it. I had to pull over to make a phone call and I had to pull over again to check the bike rack after a passing car signaled me that it was loose. (It wasn’t that loose.)

Eventually, north of Vegas, I took the exit for 93 north. That started another trip through another featureless desert valley. Or maybe there were two of them. It’s easy to lose track in terrain like that. The mountains on either side were nice looking examples of uplifted sedimentary rock. But 93 miles of road with only 2 gas stations. And that’s where I nearly made a very big mistake.

The truck has two gas tanks. They each hold about 16 gallons of fuel. I usually stick with one tank until I get to E, then switch to the other. I’d switched to the second tank and had 3/4 tank left. So when I passed that second gas station, it never occurred to me to buy fuel.

I drove another 100 miles before I reached the next gas station. By that time, I’d completely drained the second tank — the engine was sputtering when I flicked the switch to change tanks. I was back on the first tank, seeing how far into the red I could get on its gauge when I reached the gas station. I would have been completely out of gas within five miles.

The pumps were so old that they couldn’t handle the math for fuel prices over a dollar. You know the kind of pumps. The digits aren’t created with LEDs or LCDs — they’re on a wheel and roll over as the numbers change. The owners of the place had taped the per gallon price ($4.28) written on a piece of cardboard over the place where the purchase total usually appears. I got out and spoke to the two women in the shack adjacent to the pumps. “I sure hope those pumps work,” I said. They assured me that they did.

I got two bars on my cell phone and used the opportunity to call Mike and check in. Good thing I did. An hour later, I had no cell signal at all. And I wouldn’t have one for more than two hours.

If you’ve never driven through the emptiness of Nevada, you probably have little idea of what it’s like. I’ve driven in every state of this country except Minnesota and there’s no state that has more nothing than Nevada. Sure, the rugged, rocky, barren mountains are pretty — for the first hour or so. The valleys between them are often nothing more than vast plains of nothingness. Think salt flats or dry lake beds or mile after mile of scrubby vegetation clinging to existence on scant rainfall and harsh winters.

I’d hoped to write something interesting about the drive, but there’s nothing memorable about it other than miles of straight, empty blacktop cutting through the desert. If I’d broken down, I’d have to hope one of the dozen or so cars who passed each hour would be kind enough to stop. At least I was dragging along a little house with me if I had to spend the night out there.

Things changed when I neared Ely. I’d climbed into high desert, over 6,000 feet. The truck seemed to be wheezing for breath in the thin air; I was lucky to get 40 miles per hour when we climbed through the pass just south of town. I decided to call it quits for the day. It was 5 PM and I was getting tired.

But Ely — no offense to the people who live there — didn’t have much to offer. Sure, there was an historic downtown that looked kind of interesting. But I needed to park an RV and I needed to spend the night in it with Alex the Bird. (How many hotels do you think take parrots?) There was a casino on the east side of town with a sign promising $15 RV sites. But the parking lot was dirt and the whole place looked sad and neglected. I kept driving.

An hour later, I reached a crossroads. I was supposed to turn left on route 93 to head north toward Wells. But Wells, which was 78 miles away, was a speck on the map on I-80 and I didn’t know what I’d find there. If I kept straight on 93A, I’d reached West Wendover in 59 miles. The map promised a bigger town. What I saw inmy mind was a Nevada gambling town on the border of Nevada and Utah, right on I-80. I imagined casinos with big parking lots for trucks and RVs. It wouldn’t take me too far off course. So I continued on 93A.

I rolled into West Wendover around 7 PM. It was exactly as I’d imagined it. Bigger, in fact. I homed in on the casino with the brightest lights and biggest parking lot. I pulled into a spot at the far end of the parking lot and used Google Maps in my Treo to look up the casino’s phone number. Minutes later, I had the security department’s permission to park there rather than in the truck parking lot across the street. This shot was taken with my Treo a while later, after dinner in the casino’s steakhouse.

I’d been on the road for 12 hours with six short stops. I’d covered more than 650 miles. I was halfway to Quincy.