WE’RE OFF AGAIN: OREGON & WASHINGTON, DAYS 1-4

As usual, no matter how much we think we’re planning ahead, packing and outfitting the rig always takes twice as long as we think it will.  Do you think I have enough clothes?

 

And that’s just my half.  Loni is just as bad.  The usual last minute nonsense consumed Thursday morning, and it was almost 11:30 before we pulled out.  Nothing much to say about our first day.  We made it as far as Merced before calling it quits.  Ended up in one of those RV parks that are mostly long-term (permanent?) residents who are, shall we say, living on the margin.  That being said, many of the 8-footers and double-wides were neatly maintained and some had very nice gardens.  On the other side of the coin, some units looked like they should have been condemned long ago.  The “overnighter” section was at the end of a row by itself.  Quiet, priced right, and we had no complaints with the “Country Living RV Park.”  Well, there’s country and there’s country.

Friday was a longer push to get as far North as possible.  But first we made a detour into Turlock to visit with my high school English teacher, Stan Wilson, a guy who was a strong influence for the better for all of us “honors” students who had the good fortune to have him for both our sophomore and junior years.  He’s now 88, and currently in a rehab facility after a fall, but still alert and with a remarkable memory for our years together in the early 60’s.  We had a good chat, then had to get back on the road.  We were shooting for Redding, with the idea of holing up for the weekend in some RV park that had cable t.v. with ESPN so we could watch (among others) Stanford play UCLA Saturday night.  Yeah, I know, we’re supposed to be camping.  Bah.  We’re rving. 

Stayed on 99 through Sacramento, decided to avoid I-5 and instead “see the sights” on SR70 through Marysville, Oroville, and Chico.  Hmmm. Looks just like the rest of the Central Valley.  Lots of brown this time of year, and an irritating circuitous route through Marysville that was slow torture.  Well, we saw the sights.  At Red Bluff we joined the, ahem, faster moving traffic on I-5 and it wasn’t long before we got our first peak at Mount Shasta.  It’s one impressive mass.  This was taken by the intrepid navigatrix through the windshield:

We started phoning RV parks (see, advance planning!) that we plucked from our AAA and Trailer Life guidebooks, but only those with cable tv.  The first we called had space and cable, so we headed for the Redding RV park.  When we got there, the office was closed (a half hour early according to their window sign, and contrary to what they told us on the phone), but they had after-hours check-in procedures so we cruised around, rejected the only two back-in (read, cheaper) sites (the first with two college kids setting up for a party next door, and the second a mere five feet from the bathroom doors), and selected a larger pull-through site.  I opened the check-in envelope and, among the papers inside was the channel list for the cable tv.  Hmmmm.  NO ESPN!  Plan B.  Phone the next park.  Space: yes; cable: yes; ah, ESPN?  No.  Yikes, that was the only other park listed with cable.  What’s with these podunk cable systems?  Ah, but to their everlasting credit, they suggested we try the Mountain Gate RV Park in the town of Shasta Lake, about 9 miles north.  Yes, to all three questions.  We bail from Redding RV park and beetle off to MG.  A great break for us, as this has to be one of the nicest RV parks we’ve ever been in, and only a couple of bucks more per night than the others.  Top ratings for cleanliness of the restrooms/showers, nice landscaping, excellent level sites that aren’t cheek-to-jowl, full cable, wifi that works gangbusters, and friendly staff that even has a Sunday afternoon ice-cream social.  Well, say no more!  (The foreground below is not part  of the property.)

We managed to hit it lucky, timing-wise.  This was the weekend for a free two-day concert-in-the-park, and the local paper had a small blurb about a grape-stomping contest to be held by a downtown wine facility.  All right!  We offloaded the scoot, and after checking out the morning college games, took off back to Redding, managing to keep ahead of the trucks on I-5, but just barely.  Thank goodness it’s asphalt and not grooved concrete up here.  65mph on 12 inch wheels is challenging enough. 

Redding is the home of the Sundial Bridge, a one-of-a-kind, at least here in the States.

It was conceived by a Spanish architect, Santiago Calatrava, and is the largest working sundial in the world while doing double duty as a neat pedestrian bridge. 

The pylon is 210 feet high, leans due north and casts its shadow on a garden-bordered dial plate that has markers to show the time.  It appeared to be pretty accurate.  The markers are set for June 21.  It was 1:22 when we were there, and the shadow (which my flash wiped out) covered the whole disc and then some on each side.  Very cool.

We found the location of the grape stomp, parked, and got into the swing of things. 

 

Oh, yes, they did sell wine, had a catered, all-you-can-eat spaghetti dinner, a meatball-making competition with prizes, and a Lucy look-alike competition.

   Now, it helps to be of a certain age to understand the Lucy reference.  Lucille Ball’s show had an episode regarded as one of her best in which she stomped grapes in a vat with a local woman.  It ended in a knock-down brawl in the tub.  Lucy wore an outfit like this one in the scene.

You’d think that, after wine and all the spaghetti you can stuff in your craw, we’d be done for the day.  Nay nay.  There’s always room for:

Shameless. 

SOJOURN IN SOLVANG

Perhaps the nicest thing about owning our LazyDaze RV is not the rig itself, but the people we have met through it.  While the overall ownership base might well be deemed a “cult,” the individual members are some of the nicest people we’ve ever met.  In retrospect, we were unbelievably lucky when, on our first Caravan Club outing only a week after we picked up the rig, we were hosted as first-timers (to the Club) by one of its subgroups, the Past Tents.  We felt immediately at home with these folks, and felt no need to try out any of the other 8 or 9 sub-groups.  That was a decision we’ve not regretted.  Over the years we have developed close friendships that have enriched what would have been our “declining years.”  We’d have to say that we’ve been ascending all the way.

Last weekend we traveled to Solvang to join seven other Past Tents rigs (and occupants) as well as our host couple, Art and Barbara, at their beautiful home, which has a driveway long enough to fit all seven rigs (and then some)!  For privacy purposes, and to protect the innocents, I’m going to use only first names.  Hmmm, actually, there were no innocents.

First in were the short (23’) rigs, so that we could turn them sideways out of the way on the garage apron.  The hosts’ rig was in the garage.  We offloaded the scoot (that’s us, the gray).  Loni’s talking to Renee (of Larry & Renee), she of the blue rig behind.  The red belongs to John and Ilene.

Host Art kept a watchful eye for traffic as the longer rigs were called in from the Veteran’s Lodge parking lot to file in.

Eventually everyone was in line, leveled, and ready to party.  This was a 60th birthday party for Larry, and a 55th (!!) wedding anniversary for Gene and Sally.  We should all be that lucky.

Friday was spent yacking at full volume and getting prepped for the gourmet pot luck that evening.  That’s another great thing about this group:  they can cook!  Inventive stuff.  Healthy stuff.  Decadent stuff.  :>P  We ate ourselves silly, drank ourselves goofy, and generally annoyed the neighborhood to the wee hours. 

Saturday was do-it-yourself breakfasts, supplemented by pastry from one of the Solvang bakeries.  Yum.  The order of the day was a 38 mile drive out to Jalama Beach and the famed Jalama burger.  That’s the store and grill in the center of the photo.  No, I didn’t hire a hot-air balloon, this is off the internet.  Credits to somebody or other.

We had three Jeeps and 13 people, so we opted to take the scoot.  It’s a great ride on two wheels, the last fourteen miles are through uninhabited mountains with continuous curves, dips, and climbs.  I’m sure we had more fun than the Jeepers.  Once there we made a halfhearted stab at hiking up the beach, but the wind was blowing so hard it simply wasn’t going to be much fun.  Then there was the raging torrent (see above) that transected the beach.  No one wanted to get their shoes wet or to take them off, so we wimped out and, seeing that it was five past noon, decided it was time for burgers.  I have to say, they really were worth the drive, allegedly using local, grass-fed beef.  Whatever. Great sauce, a grilled bun, and we were in sloppy heaven.  Temporarily sated (there was dinner to think about, after all), we saddled up and retraced our steps back to Solvang.  Loni and I stopped off in town as they were having a car show that took up most of downtown.  Mostly 50’s-60’s classics and muscle cars

but my favorite was this ancient Austin with a V-8 stuffed where it shouldn’t oughta go.

 

While we were enjoying the show, the others were down the road at the local ostrich farm buying tomorrow’s breakfast centerpiece.  But first, there was dinner to tackle.  Everyone went all out.  There were huge grilled steaks, two big salmon, Loni’s Asian slaw-with-a-bite, a slew of interesting salads and side dishes, and a dozen or so bottles of wine.  Oh, nurse, take me now.  The pieces de resistance, however, were Barbara’s home-made triple-chocolate anniversary cake and kill-me-now birthday carrot cake.  One of each, please.  I didn’t dare say “hit me again,” but I wanted to.  Murgatroyd!

One of the Past Tents who couldn’t be present is recovering from very recent surgery for cancer.  Some not-to-be-named wacko decided it would be a good idea to make a humorous video to send to her to cheer her up.  Since her favorite song is some deservedly obscure ditty that consists of an endless chant of “put da lime in da coconut,” it was decided without any discernable vote that we would dress in “appropriate” costume and, er, dance around to the music.  Well, the less said about this the better.  And no pictures here.  Suffice to say that no video of a certain blogger and a grass skirt better go viral on the internet or there will be hell to pay!

Sunday morning was ostrich-egg scramble day.  This was, I believe, a first for all in attendance.  This beauty matches the efforts of 24 hens.  How’d you like to pass THAT?  Note operating instruments laid out and ready.

You don’t just rap it on the counter and pull the shell apart.  Heck, this thing came with detailed written instructions that required an engineering degree to fathom.  Just the ticket for our resident propeller-head, Larry, to tackle, with nurse Barbara assisting.  Donning appropriate gear, he set to work making the initial incision:

Air pressure via bendable straw is required to, ah, move things along, so to speak.  Note assistant reading the directions out loud.

Success!

Scrambled, they have an unusual texture, but they tasted just like hen’s eggs.  Julia Child cooking method scrupulously observed.  Porcine grillmaster Art (wait, that didn’t come out right) baked three pounds of bacon and I can testify that not a single piece went unet. 

Add in some ripe mangos, more delicious pastries from the bakery, juice and coffee and, well, we didn’t want to leave.  This is one fine resort, even if you do have to bring your own bed!  Thank you, Art and Barbara and all the gang.  A great weekend!

 

 

 

FLUGTAG!

To save you the Googling, it means “Flyday,” and is an event hosted by Red Bull about four times a year at various venues around the country (was last in Minnesota, I believe, where the distance record was set).  The idea is that local teams prepare their own craft that, with a push launch off the thirty-foot high ramp, are supposed to, um, fly as far as they can.  From what we saw yesterday, that’s about thirty feet straight down.

We were supposed to do this as a group scooter ride with the L.A. club, but as the date approached virtually all those who signed up bagged out, leaving us and one other to do the ride to Long Beach.  And he lived further downtown, so we ended up going most of the way by ourselves, and meeting up in the South Bay.  When we got down to the Long Beach Harbor, we met a mob scene.  From the account in the Times today, there were 105,000 spectators.  I think that was no exaggeration.  We cajoled a parking structure attendant to let both scoots in for the price of one, since we’d only be occupying one space.  At $12 a pop, a good deal.

First stop was the staging area where we could view the contraptions.  It was sort of like previewing floats at the Rose Parade;  a very low-rent parade.  Part of the judging is for “performance,” which means the crew has to do some dance or whatever prior to the launch.  Costumes were the order of the day.  We had rainbow men, lost men, cave men, and infantile men, to name

only a few.  The “craft” (loosely termed; see the rock above) were a bizarre assortment.  There were flying pink biplanes, flying Obamas, flying pianos, flying Nascars, and, hey, real Coast Guard flyboys!

We spent too long examining the lunatics.  By the time we made our way to Rainbow Harbor, most of the 105,000 had already gobbled all of the available real estate.  No seating; just squat wherever you could find a spot.  We ended up sitting on the rocks (ouch!) that lined the banks of the peninsula opposite the launch pier.  Good sightline, but I wished for binoculars.  And, of course, Summer finally decided to arrive.  No fog; no cool temps; no cloud cover.  Those rocks had been baking all morning.  We felt like fish on hot coals. 

Ah, but the idiocy was worth it.  The Flying Sombrero:

The flightless stork, baby in mouth.

The ever popular shark and porpoise ballet.

And the cave dudes and their rock.

I have some neat video of the launches, but after a frustrating hour trying to upload it I’ve given up.  Don’t know whether to swear at the program, the computer, or Verizon.  Actually, I vote for Verizon.

KATELYN 10-31-85 / 8-11-10

For life and death are one, even as the river and sea are one. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Katy left this life, but not our hearts, August 11, 2010.

AT LAST!

At last, my love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song
Oh, yeah, at last
The skies above are blue
My heart was wrapped up in clovers
The night I looked at you
I found a dream that I could speak to
A dream that I can call my own
I found a thrill to rest my cheek to
A thrill that I have never known
Oh, yeah when you smile, you smile
Oh, and then the spell was cast
And here we are in heaven
For you are mine
At last

With thanks to Etta James

This maudlin sentimentality is, of course, my own.  I hope it doesn’t embarrass the happy couple.  We are SO happy to announce the engagement of son, John, to Meghan Gendelman, with a tentative schedule of a wedding next June, 2011.  That should give us time to save up, as it will be a “destination” wedding somewhere, as befits Meghan’s globe-trotting life. We think they’re both pretty lucky (to say nothing of us!).

HIGH ON SIERRAS

It’s that time of year again when we head north to Fallen Leaf Lake and SSC.  We first started this in 1982 when John was 5 and Michael was was 4 . . . months!  Egads, can all that time really have passed?  Maybe that’s why we keep going back year after year.  Camp seems timeless.  The staff changes each year, and things get refurbished, but the lake and the mountains are their familiar selves, immortal.  

Yikes.  Where’s that coming from?

Anyway, we loaded the car, fired the GPS (didn’t really need it, but it’s fun to have a mileage countdown, etc.), and headed north out of L.A., 405 to I-5.  It’s about 400 miles or so to Sacramento, where we were going to overnight near the airport in order to pick up my two nieces, Rachael and Kate, who were flying in from Bloomington, Indiana, to join us.  When making this trek on I-5, it is de rigueur to stop at Harris Ranch, the approximate halfway point, for whatever meal is appropriate.  For Loni and I, it was a late breakfast.  For Mom, it was salad and . . .

a chocolate malt, of course.  Hey, when you’re 87 . . ..

More than adequately loaded with carbs and fats, we pushed on, with digestion fighting for blood resources with my driving attention span.  I managed to stay awake and we made our way to the Hampton Inn and Suites to the west of Sacramento, about 6 miles from the airport.  It’s a new facility, with a great breakfast bar included, and was perfect for our purposes.  I even reviewed it for TripAdvisor.com.  Saturday morning we went over to the airport and met the Bloomie Girls at Southwest.  We’ve been flying SW for many years with nary a hitch.  But we seem starcrossed this summer.  First, Mom came out a couple of weeks ago, and had a plane change in Phoenix.  SW canceled that connecting flight.  They made an announcement during her first flight on the overhead p.a., but she can’t hear those things, so she disembarked and made her way to the gate (quite a ways away) only to find that it wasn’t posted for L.A., but something else.  Fortunately, she has all her wits, if not her leg strength, and checked a monitor which gave her the change which, of course, was all the way back where she had come from.  She got here ok, a couple of hours late.  Now, in Sacramento, we waited, and waited, and waited for the girls’ checked bags.  They never arrived.  Off to the SW baggage department, fill out the forms, give them the camp’s address, making sure they know it’s about 100 miles away up in the mountains, and getting assured (cough) that they will overnight the bags by Fed-Ex when they arrive on the next flight from Indy.  Oooh kay.  Off we go, and made it up to camp without incident, got unloaded and put away, and killed time mugging for pictures

until the dinner bell.  Ah, food.  For many the principal motivation for coming to camp.  Ignore this barmy vegetarian,

the rest of us had excellent roast beef with a zillion side dishes and salad fixings.  Oh, yes.

Ah, the luggage.  There was a phone message waiting after dinner (this is Saturday, remember) in which SW casually stated that the bags had arrived and would be delivered . . .  TUESDAY evening.  NOT!  I spent 3/4 of an hour on the phone haranguing three different reps.  They finally capitulated and said they would have a local courier bring them up tonight.  Rachel stayed up until 1:00 in the vain hope of intercepting them, but had to go to bed then.  Apparently the courier got there at 3 a.m., left the bags at the office, and faded into the night.  All’s well that ends well, I guess, but fie on SW for their first response.

We spent Sunday getting acclimated to the altitude (6,400 feet at the lake) and trying out the watercraft.  The girls tried their hand at Hobie sailing

 while I stroked around in a sea kayak.  The life jackets

are mandatory, but I unzipped mine when I got out of sight of the dock.  It was too hot.  We had great weather the entire week, with just occasional cloud cover and no rain.  Actually, I wished for more cloud cover on the hikes.  That’s not Fallen Leaf in the picture at the top, but rather Half Moon Lake, the destination of the alleged “medium” hike the second day we were there.  A twelve mile warm-up at 7,000+ feet.  I brought up the rear, but made it.  I thought I was moving at a good clip, but our hiking leader was a cross between Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jim Fixx, as in carrying a huge pack and moving fast.  I didn’t feel too bad.  After all, he’s 1/3 my age and has been up here two months doing this every day.

On Wednesday, Loni and I ditched the games day at the beach and headed for our favorite hike in these parts, the wildflower hike to Lake Winnemucca.  We drove twenty miles to Carson Pass at 8,650 feet, which is the trailhead for the 3 mile hike to the Lake.  Since this was a late Spring, we were hoping for a good bloom.  We weren’t disappointed.  Loni got swallowed up:

 

We rated this as the number 2 year out of all the years we’ve been coming up.  We found plenty of color:

The best of the flowers are about 2/3 of the way to the lake.  We finished the hike in and had lunch on our favorite rock lakeside. 

There were a number of people there, but so spread out that we felt we had the place to ourselves.  Some hero on the far side (those are full-sized trees across the way) was climbing up a cliff side and doing Acapulco cliff dives into the lake from about 40 feet up.  Brrrrr.  Too far away for my puny telephoto to capture.

My favorite activity at camp is sculling in the early (6:30) morning.  It is dead quiet, no motorboats, no kids’ groups, with the water like glass.  I like to go out in the middle about 1 mile, drop oars, and sit and look at the mountains.  Now that’s peace.

 

The Grail of the masochist set is the Long Hike, held on Thursday.  After my less than stellar performance on the alleged medium hike, I should have been somewhat more cautious.  Ah, at the beginning of a hike, everyone is full of beans and raring to go.  These smiles

would eventually fade.  Our destination today was Freel’s Peak, the highest point in the Tahoe Basin at 10,881 feet.  It’s a 14 mile hike round trip, starting at about 7,200 feet.  We had tried this hike a number of years ago, but with one mile to go a storm moved in and the threat of lightning (which did hit) forced us to retreat back down the hill.  Blue skies today, with no threat of storms.  For most of the hike, it’s steady up, with long grades and switchbacks, with the views starting at about the 5 mile point. 

It’s quite a mountain, totally bald at the top, with decomposed rock making a sand-dune like slog for the last 700 feet of elevation.  This is the view up with a mile to go.  The ”trail” here essentially disappeared for the most part, and we picked our way along.

I have to say, I was feeling every one of my years.  I hadn’t adequately prepared for a hike this strenuous, and the steep pitch (45 degrees) and altitude had me gasping with every step.  Once again, I brought up the rear, moving in slow motion up the last slope.  That’s me with the light hat at the tail end.  Max, our leader, hiked back down to escort the geezers up the final hill.

At the top, the Bloomie Girls celebrated with far too much energy.  Apparently, this (something) Waters store in Bloomington will give them a freebie if they take a photo of themselves in a distant locale while waiving these towel thingies.  Meanwhile,

Unc collapsed on his rear and contemplated a white flag of his own.

That’s the southern end of Tahoe to the right (you could see all the way to the North end).  Fallen Leaf is the little slice of blue to the left.  We had a 360 degree view from here, and could see the Carson Valley in Nevada, and the mountains around Yosemite to the South.  The group was pleased with itself:

The slog down was long, but a lot easier than the climb up. 

Still, it was three hours before we got back to the cars.  I was whipped.  Time for a coffee malt!

Mom was holding down the fort with her book on the porch.  

All in all, it was another great camp week.  They even had new pedal watercraft which were just what Mom ordered: