Just Around the Bend Episode IX Big Sky

JUST AROUND THE BEND

Episode IX
Hot Springs Trail:

















The creek was lined with wild flowers as it rushed toward the
river.





















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Hot Springs Trail:

Arlene figured we were approaching the springs as she spied a
naked couple down below in the creek.
A little later we came to a field with several small hot water
pools. The color of the water told us something about the
temperature; blue is warmer, probably about 100 degrees.

































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Hot Springs Trail:

A couple of women, with suits, were in one pool.
We never asked how they got there as we were the only cars
on the pull-off. Maybe there was another way to the springs as
we had never passed anyone on the trail.
















If you wonder why there aren’t any pictures of these bathing
beauties it’s because we generally ask before we take pictures
of anyone. It may be an old Indian custom, or just a line in a
movie that a photo may steal a person’s soul. We don’t go for
that, but it’s a nice thought.

This was a great place for a picnic. We sat on the rocks and
ate a sandwich, had some chips, a power bar full of nuts, and a
soda. It was a pleasant time.








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Hot Springs Trail:

On the way back we talked about how quiet and lovely it was.
Strangely, there had been no sign of any animals.
























We were soon back in our RV headed further down the road.
We didn’t have any rain, yet the clouds hung on the mountain
tops above us.









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Hot Springs Trail:

















The river continued to grow larger as other steams merged .






















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Episode IX
Orofino:

We’ve driven on many hills here in the west that were 15 miles
long, but never have we encountered one like this that
descended 100 miles from Lolo Pass to Lewiston.




















Near the town of Orofino it flatten out, yet still we were
headed down. It wouldn’t stop until we reached the Columbia
River.
Orofino was at the bottom of the mountains. We were
interested because there was a Corp of Engineer, COE,
campground about 20 miles from it. We’re suckers for the best
campgrounds anywhere, and they’re always COE’s. They are
also remotely located from towns, and near the dams they
build.





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Orofino:

We love them, but, because they are always right below the
dam we sleep with one weary eye open. Just as a precaution
mind you.
Campers that love COE’s have over the years put together
guide Books. Today, they have grown to include almost all the
facilities in the country. It’s quite an undertaking as often a
dammed lake or river will have many different recreational
areas with different types of facilities. These books use
universal symbols, about 50, to define each activity.

They are very useful as in a quick glance we can search
through many locations for the facilities we want. Usually
there are only a few for us; RV’s sites; Electric; at least 30
amps, but 50 amp’s is even better; Water; a Dump station; and
Flush Toilets. Any other facilities, or symbols are icing on the
cake.
The COE had created Lake Dworshack by daming the
Clearwater River. It’s over 50 miles long and has lots of
different recreational sites. Among them only one had what
we were looking for; RV camping with EWD,(Electric, Water,
and Dump Station), and flush toilets. There is probably only
one campground because access is so remote. This site was
the Dent Acres Campground. It had only 49 pull-thru EWD
sites, but every kind of other activity, 11 in all from a
swimming beach to playgrounds, showers, hiking trails, boat
ramp; and they even accepted Visa or Master Card.

Of course we don’t want to forget that in addition to being the
best campgrounds they accept our Golden Age Pass. That
means instead of $25 a night fee it’s half price $12.50.



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Episode IX
Orofino:

We have friends that sign up to stay the summer, in these
camps; only they can’t say longer than two weeks in any one
campground. They get around that by moving every two
weeks to another COE campground, then returning to the
first one every third two week cycle. Their summers were not
only a great vacation break for them, but down right
inexpensive.
We were ready to camp and the only way to get to this
campground was to climb the mountain, which looked straight
up, like the Swiss Alps.

Our RV and dingy were about 40 feet long. The local road
was paved, and 1 ½ lanes wide. Because the climb was so steep
it kept switching back and forth. We didn’t care that we were
rising at a 10% grade, but each turn caused us to go half way
and then back up a bit. Arlene wasn’t upset until we got high
enough for her to see her destiny 1000 feet below.
At that point it was too late for us to turn around. We
continued to climb, concentrating on the road, and our
welfare. There were no other roads on the way up, and at the
top we started across the mountain, but still no turn around.

We thought the next 15 miles couldn’t be on the mountain
tops, or reasonably level. No we figured if we’d made it up
one cliff we could expect to go down at least twice more and
climb another. That was enough, we started looking for the
first widening in the road. We’d camp somewhere else.
Another mile and we found just what we were looking for. A
driveway 8 feet wide. It took us 20 minutes to get turned
around. Perseverance won the day.




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Orofino:

First we tried pulling in RV front first. That didn’t get us
anywhere. With a little experience we tried pulling ahead on
one side and backing the Nova into the drive. That way we
could inch the RV around until we were mostly headed back
the way we came.
Going back down the ‘cliff’ we used first gear and I adjusted
the electric brakes on the Nova so they were pretty tight, We
never got over 15 mph, but then we never slid over the side
into the river below either.

Hells Gate:

Sixty miles later nearing Lewiston we could still smell the
brakes on both vehicles.
We had reached the Columbia River, across it was the great
state of Washington, and city of Clarkston. On our side was
Lewiston, Idaho. One was a bustling town with a sales tax of
4% and among other stores a Costco. Clarkston had a 7 ½ %
sales tax and hardly any business. We would pay our share of
Washington’s taxes later, but for now we’re staying in Idaho.
Costco was on the main street, and a steep hillside, like all of
Idaho. We bought a few things, a nice red pullover for Arlene
to match my blue one that we’d bought earlier.

Down along the river we got a camp site at Hells Gate State
Park. It was grand, flat, a Pull-thru, with EWD and showers.









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Episode IX
Hells Gate:


















Hells Gate is a large inaccessible recreation area that the Snake
River had carved through the mountains. It may be the
deepest of all gorges in the U.S.

Although historical facts are difficult to find it’s believed it got
it’s name from the tribal wars between many Indian groups,
Nez Perce, and Shoshoni among others. They might have
battled frequently, creating the name, in the years before Lewis
and Clark passed by in 1806.

We hiked along the shores on the well laid out trails. It was
really nice and there were plenty of summer berries to be
picked, and eaten. We had blackberries, and raspberries for
breakfast and snacks for three days.







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Washington’s High Desert:

We’re preparing to move on to the high desert of Washington,
where lots of wheat is grown. It’s beautiful. The sun shines
on hill after rolling hill covered with these bright golden fields.
It’s much different than the flat fields of the Great Plains
where wheat stretches out miles to the horizon, and the sun
reflects on the top of the tassels. No one field was too large.
There is a depth to these fields as they stand out against the
clear blue sky.


















A single antelope surveys the crop before moving into the
valley.









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Washington’s High Desert:

















Washington grows an extraordinary amount of wheat. Then
exports most of it. They may be the largest exporter in the
States.
We drove the high desert to Kennewick and down to the
Columbia. This is a far cry from the beginning of this river in
British Columbia on the small blue-green glacial lakes. It’s
merging with the Snake and is now so large it loses it’s appeal
to us. Our imagination gets lost on it’s size.

This photo is taken from Washington’s desert. The Union
Pacific Railroad runs all the way to Portland, Oregon.
On the horizon is Mount Hood. At 11,000 feet it towers over
the river all along the border of the two states from Idaho to
the Pacific Ocean.







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Washington’s High Desert:

















At one point we pulled over and I climbed a steep
embankment to photograph the river with the mountain
behind it.



















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Episode IX
Columbia Valley Vineyards:

Everyone knows how good and tasty the Washington State
wines are. Their reds are outstanding.
We have collected their wines for years. Back in Connecticut
we had a wine cellar under our cement front porch. It kept
the bottles at a constant temperature. We even put little red
tags on the reds and blue tags for the whites. Our favorites
from Washington and Oregon are Shiraz and Pinot Noir. On
the road we drink them with dinner and a good steak; a York
Strip or Porterhouse.

So it wasn’t just wheat that we marveled at, but the vineyards
along the sunny hillside of the Columbia River. It had sandy
soil, just like we had read that produces good wine.

After passing a few wineries we realized that nothing would
be more fun than to stop and sample their nice wines. We
have sampled wines from lots of vineyards in the past, at an
extremely inexpensive price. In Australia we actually traveled
from vineyard to vineyard until we didn’t think it was safe to
drive anymore. Those were all white wines. Here we’ll go for
the reds.

Our first stop was the Waving Tree, where we tasted two nice
wines a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Malbec. We had a bite or
two of Oregon’s fine Tillamook cheddar in between. Mmm,
Good.
Our next stop was May Hill, then Cascade Cliffs. Each was
fine and at a really good price. We were beginning to feel
pretty good when we finally stopped at Marshalls Vineyard.

There were more people tasting there than the others, about
10 of us altogether. The proprietor, Gary was a young fellow



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Columbia Valley Vineyards:

in his early 30’s. He poured wine as if there was no tomorrow,
and there was nothing better than a good party. It didn’t seem
like a business at all, and soon we all really got into it.
Gary, poured Pinot Noir, and Shiraz while we all visited and
he told stories of the Columbia River Valley.

The best story was the creation of this great valley. Tens of
thousands of years ago; there was an upheaval to the east;
beyond the 6 and 7 thousand foot Bitterroot Mountains.

Oh! My! Could this be the answer to the mystery of
MISSOULA LAKE?. The lake we couldn’t believe was so
big, or understand how it could cross the Bitterroots.
He went on ….There was a lake larger than any of the Great
Lakes. It was created by a gigantic Ice Dam. When the
weather warmed and the pressure against it became too great it
no longer could hold back the water.

The water spilled from the lake towering over the valleys, with
estimates of at least 1,000 feet. Taller than the tallest sky
scrapers in Portland. There was so much water it took three
days to empty.

The destruction was immense. As it reached the
Oregon/Washington border it swept down toward the Pacific
Ocean. Along it’s way it carved into the sandy volcanic soil
creating the Columbia Valley, and the great Columbian River
Gorge.

Well my goodness. This was some party. We’ve solved the
mystery of the Seeley Lake paddle, and how the valley is being
reforested.



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Columbia Valley Vineyards:

By now we felt no pain and we had lost most of our resistance
to buying a couple of bottles. Before we took another sip we
had lined up two wonderful bottles. One Shiraz, only $15, and
a Pinot Noir for $20.
We didn’t rush out of the Marshalls Vineyard, but when we
did we had to cross the river to the Deschutes Recreation Area
where we had reservations to camp.

The closest bridge was to the city of Hood .















Columbia Valley Vineyards:

We’re crossing the Hood Bridge where the Hood River joins
the Columbia, at Hood city, with the Hood Mountain towering
over us.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Hood! Hood! Hood! Sounds like good wine to
us.






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Episode IX
Yakima:

A couple of days along the Columbia and we moved to the
middle of Washington State and it’s fruit capital, Yakima.


















It’s beautiful country, and they have the best fruit, apples,
peaches and pears. Every year our son Dan sends us Harry
and David’s fruit from here. Their pears, grown in their
orchards are the best anywhere. They’re so delicious that we
eat a half dozen in two days.

Were just passing through but couldn’t help ourselves when
we saw these famous murals on the walls of the old town.
From time to time we’ve seen displays of different town’s
history, but these stood out. It’s an old community and a
lovely way to celebrate.






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Yakima:








































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Yakima:


















We turned toward Seattle, driving Interstate 90 to Interstate 5
and north to Burlington, where we began our Eastern trip into
the Northern Cascades along route 20.
















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Episode IX
CHAPTER 3

The Cascades:

We were a few hours ahead of our plans so the first stop was
at a Wal Mart to have some photos printed as post cards.
By the time we’d finished I was feeling okay so we walked a
few blocks to Burger King and had a Whopper Junior with
fries. That’s a poor lunch, on an unsettled stomach, but I’ll
survive. We’ve been really fortunate over the years to travel
without any real sickness. Our biggest problem has been the
dryness of the air. It was resolved by using nasal spray
moisturizers.

By the time we got back on the road it was late morning. We
hadn’t made any reservations but did look over several camps
along route 20 heading into the Cascade Mountains.
















Our first alternative was at Bay View. No luck, it was filled.
Next camp was in Concrete Washington. It was filled, the




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The Cascades:

Rockport State Park, was also. We were making our way
across the mountains. Winthrop was a 100 miles away.
The road was a fun drive through the steep mountains and
into the valleys. Yet, tiring, after the early morning we’d had.
We reached the North Cascade National Park and stopped at
Diablo Lake. Again, the campground was filled. Without any
more alternatives we drove in and around the camp and found
an empty, rough pull through. We’re in Colonial Camp at site
#91.


















Across from us was the Thunder Arm, blueish-green glacial
waters of the Diablo Lake inlet,.








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The Cascades:






















Even though we were on the inlet the winds blew during the
afternoon. They were much to strong for us to take the kayaks
out for a paddle. Maybe, we could do it in the morning.
Near us was this really old camping trailer. I mean really old,
with Jalouse Windows. We talked to the campers, who had
borrowed it from some friends in Edmonton, Alberta. Canada
over the years has built some pretty nice small trailers and
Class ‘B’ RV’s. We talked awhile and invited them to see our
Casita. They loved it, of course.

They happened to be a crazy couple who enjoyed a good
adventure. They had taken their canoe out onto Diablo Lake
near the dam, and tipped it over in the high winds.




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The Cascades:

The water was ice cold. She said she couldn’t breath. He
hung on to the canoe and paddled to shore. Drenched they
warmed up and with the help of a couple of Rangers emptied
the canoe and paddled back to camp. They were really lucky,
and even more, stupid. Yet, we enjoyed talking to them.
We paddled ourselves, but only inside the Arm, and during the
calm of the next morning. The water was so green, and the
sun warm. But, we thought a good plan would help us out.

We’ve long since given up paddling where there is a current or
winds, and always keep our eye on the clouds. The clouds are
particularly important around waters that are unfamiliar.

Thunder Arm comes from the creek that feeds the lake. It’s
Thunder Creek, it’s waters are glacial from the 7,000 – 9,000
foot peaks.

These mountains are rough and steep. At the shoreline they
continue straight down into deep water.
There is also a trail along the creek that leads into the
mountains, where it meets the Pacific Trail. It’s like the
Appalachian Trail, only from Canada to Mexico. Maybe that’s
why there were so many campers.

As we unloaded two groups of kayakers arrived from Diablo
Lake. Each had overnight gear strapped down on their boats.
Both had gone up Ross Lake, one to Canada, the other just for
the weekend. The weekenders had two dogs with them. We’d
say these North Western’s were gung-ho activists.

We got ready for our paddle.
Arlene, needs help when paddling in waters where some agility
is needed. If the wind blows we would need to be careful, and


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The Cascades:

stay close to the shore. She may never learn different strokes
for different situations or currents. So I try to direct her when
it’s needed, with specific moves, and repeat them if needed.
The inlet is pretty wide between the main lake and where it
flows down from the mountains. Our plan was to cross the
inlet to the leeward side, paddle along it to the creek entrance
and return on the camp side in a following wind. It seemed to
be a good plan.

We began by crossing to the lee side, so on the way back we’d
be with the following wind. That would be the easiest. We
pointed our bows diagonally into the current. I followed
behind on her side where I could help if she needed it, and
otherwise direct her. We got just the right angle and crossed
without any problem.
We paddled along the eastern side, in about 3 feet of water,
with trees overhanging and shading us from the intense sun. It
was really nice, and leisurely. We continued until the current
started to push against us. Arlene beached her boat there and
I tried moving closer to the mouth of the creek.

I headed right into the clear running funnel, where the current
was strong enough to cause rivulets’ of waves as it ran around
a sand mound into the main pond. I was on the weakest side
and paddled for 30 yards without stopping. When I did the
boat headed backwards toward Arlene.
I mounted another attack, using long strokes, took a deep
breath and paddled more. Nothing worked, I didn’t have the
strength to get around the sand bar and into the swift
mountain stream.




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The Cascades:

Pulling the stern out the bow shifted toward the shore. With a
couple of strokes I was headed back to Arlene.
Crossing back to the western shore was pretty easy. We
paddled some and floated along with the breeze. The wind
was just coming up as we reached the shore and began loading
the boats on the van. Perfect timing.

For the several hours we paddled it was a lot of fun.

Leaving Colonial Beach we climbed high above Diablo Lake
and took some swell pictures of the steep mountains and
glacial green lakes below. These mountains aren’t so high but
they are rugged. We drove over a couple of mountain passes
before we came to the 5,600 foot Washington Pass. It was
rougher and more jagged than the others.

We stopped here at the overlook, and climbed a loop trail that
led to a Cliff. It was spectacular and scary.

Below us route 20 twisted around again and again, back on
itself as it made its way eastward. Above us there were these
very sharp spikes of the ridge.

Beside us we climbed the sheer cliff holding on to the
boulders. It was a frightening climb as the boulders were
round and gave very few places to grip. Arlene, never looked
down as we ascended. Below there was 2,000 feet of pure air.

We survived and at the top we found a picnic area with an
alternative path back to our van. I set our camera down and
went for my sketch book and lunch. This was a great place to
take a few hour break and sketch the high mountains.
It was a grand break, we packed up and headed down the
mountain around the switch backs and soon into Winthrop. A


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The Cascades:

pathetic town rebuilt to attract and bilk tourists. It looked like
a Wild West place of 1950 movie sets. Board walks on both
sides, all buildings with wood facades, their names in big letters
above. ‘Three Finger Jacks’, on the corner was a saloon. Gas
was locked in every where at $3.24 a gallon.
Oh! My! Where is our camera. Oh! No! it’s back at the
Washington Pass Picnic table. Oh! No! That’s 75 miles back
and 150 mile round trip.

We thought maybe we should go back and see if we could
retrieve it. But, first we should check out the local, Pearrygin
State Park.
th
We did and it turned out to be a small lake with 5 wheelers,
large RV’s and Class B’s parked side by side with only enough
room to slide sideways between them. We didn’t need to look
twice, like the town it was the pits.


Swan Lake:

In a depressed mood we turned toward Republic, Washington.
We won’t go back and try to claim our lost camera. We’ll lose
those photos, just like the ones we lost at Zappata Falls in
Colorado. It’s a heavy feeling, and hope it doesn’t happen
again.

We were in that kind of state, where everything aggravated us.
This time we took it out on Washington’s State Parks.
It’s not that they don’t have enough of them around the state,
but they don’t care much about them, and therefore aren’t
maintained. We were never happy about the Mt. St. Helens
camp, and making reservations never seemed to go well.


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Swan Lake:

Finally, like so many states there are too many campers to
support. We just say no to Washington State Parks.
Following route 20 north we may choose between another
State Park and a Forest Service camp 14 miles outside of town.

Forest Service campgrounds are a hit or miss proposition.
They are usually small with 25 sites, never have electricity. Pit
toilets run the gammit from holes in the ground to vaulted.
They are usually in nice surroundings, with flat and separated
sites. We would choose them, even with the few facilities in
stead of State and National Parks. Their financial support and
maintenance services are pretty good. They are inexpensive,
and in our experience over the years not overrun like the other
parks with campers.
We decided to take a look before doing any shopping in
Republic. The roads were narrow and twisting throughout the
forest. Swan Lake was pretty remote.

As we’ve seen before there were about 25 sites, each separated
from the other, flat and nicely maintained. About half the sites
were filled, mostly with families and children. We chose a site,
#6, separated from them, flat and overlooking the small lake.
We backed in set our wheel chocks, unhitched, and stabilized
the trailer. Without the stabilizers each time we move inside,
the trailer rocks. It’s pretty sensitive, so at night without them
just rolling around in bed would cause the trailer’s water tank
to talk to us.







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Swan Lake:








































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Swan Lake:

From our picnic table we could see the entire lake. It ripples
in the afternoon sun and soft breeze. When the children
several sites from us are quiet we can’t hear a thing. Unless
something drops into the water, or a loon calls or lands on the
pond.
Boy, this is a swell place. We decided to stay a couple of days.

We could unload the kayaks and drag them down to the shore,
but it was a long distance. Just down the road was the boat
launch. We thought we’d unload there and paddle up to our
camp. We’d secure the boats there for easy access.
















Arlene was game for unloading. It didn’t take long, and she
looked like she’d like to paddle.








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Swan Lake:

















There was no trouble moving the kayaks the several yards up
to our camp. The shoreline was muddy so after getting out
and wading to shore I pulled my boat out of the water and
secured it to a tree.


















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Swan Lake:

Arlene waited patiently as she prefers not to get wet, and
possibly fall into the water. When I lifted the bow to drag her
onto land it caused her to flip backwards out of the boat into
the water. She wasn’t too happy about that, with her hands
deep in the mud she crawled to shore. Honestly, these were
warm waters compared to where we’d recently paddled.
She would forgive me soon enough, or until we landed the
boats again. Then she would remind me to take it easy pulling
her ashore.

Here she had changed and mostly recovered.
















Neither of us slept well last night, probably being so disturbed
about losting the camera. The sun’s up, casting a cheerful
bright light across our tree lined pond. We should get over the
lost camera and move on.





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Swan Lake:

After breakfast we drove into Republic for a little shopping.
I’d written notes on our post cards and they were ready to
mail.
At the grocery she found a Cook-Kit’. It was a self heating
bricket package that you lit and cooked your meal on it. She
bought some onions, tomatoes and a couple ears of corn. I
bought a New York Strip Steak from the butcher.

At the library, we got on to the Internet. If your willing to risk
being hacked libraries all over the country offer Personal
Computers with access to the Internet. They are slower than
Internet Cafés, but much easer to find and usually cost
nothing. We looked up some stocks, checked our e-mail and
thanked the librarian.
Back at camp it was time to go for a trip around the lake. In
no time we had tossed our mooring lines onto the boats and
shipped out.



















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Swan Lake:

This is more like it. There’s no current to worry about, and
the lake is so small the wind generates at best 3 or 4 inch
waves. We paddled around the outside of the lake and then
across it. At one end it emptied into a creek, through some
long reeds and cattails. We’d save that for another time.
The afternoon was waning and we were hungry. We put the
cook-kit on the grille and lit it up. She wrapped the corn and
made up some tomatoes and onions. The onions were really
strong, so we sliced them and added them to roast on the
grille.

We were getting into it. I sliced some Yukon and Red
potatoes, added more onions, spiced them with butter, salt
and pepper, and wrapped them.
Our little grille was running out of room so I added some split
wood, and Trader Joe bags to start a little fire for the steak.




















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Swan Lake:

Dinner was a delight, the roasted onions were softened and
with a glass of wine and gin we had a feast.
We sat back and are enjoying the late afternoon. Overhead the
quiet is broken by two fighter jets flying over us. They’re from
Spokane about 150 miles south of us, once off the ground it’s
no time before they’re buzzing us. Down by the boat launch
children are laughing and playing. There’s a slight breeze, yet
comfortable in the shade under the trees.

It’s a lovely late afternoon at camp.

We slept well and in the morning decided to take a final trip
around the lake. Remembering the last launch Arlene was a
little hesitant.
Getting into and out of a kayak is a special act. Unless your
butt is over your knees you have no control. You can’t raise
up, you can’t get out. But you can go down. The older we get
the more difficult it is to raise and lower ourselves.
That’s what happened to Arlene’s sweet round rear. It slipped
below her ankles and knees and she fell Ka-Boom right into
the special 3-D Pungo seat. It rocked the camp site and the
entire lake quivered.

She lifted her paddle and I the bow. She screamed, and with
one huge shove she was launched into the calm clear waters.
Like the christening of the Lusitania; one major ship into the
waters of man-kind.








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Swan Lake:

I followed. Out on the water we paddled past a Loon family.










The best we could figure was the one in the middle was their
duckling. It was as big as they, but fluffy gray. The other two
stayed on the surface, while the little one, kept ducking under.
























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Each time it came up it would make a sound like Coo-Coo,
and stay a little longer. (Not the usual Eerie Loon cry) Maybe,
the parents decided we weren’t going to harm it so they let it
stay on the surface.
We paddled around the lake to the far side where the Cattails
were. It looked like the exit to a creek. We pushed forward
into the reeds, but couldn’t find the outlet.

















Turning around in a tight space is difficult at best. Arlene
went first, she paddled into the weeds and because I was
behind her, I pulled her out by the stern facing in the new
direction.
I tried the same maneuver, bow into the weeds with a power
stroke, and a reverse stroke to back out. On the second try I
was turned around also.





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Here we are leaving the swampy outlet headed back to the lake
and the boat launch where we will load the boats back on to
the Van.
















On the way we passed another Loon, it’s long beak, black
head, dotted black and white body, swimming away from us,
and finally ducking under the water.
















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We were pretty well packed and ready to leave, but decided to
stay until morning.
Earlier we had listened to the children frolicking at the boat
launch. Now we could hear some others laughing, these
weren’t children, and it came from the lake. Maybe some
swimmers, but no.

It was a couple in a blow-up kayak. He in front with his feet
propped up on the sides, she steering from the back. Their
red paddles went into the water indifferently. One stroke and
the bow turned toward our shore, another and it turned the
opposite direction. That was so funny. They didn’t care
where they were going, just floating along.

It was time for the weekenders to arrive and after dinner they
came along. For several days we had enjoyed camping, with
families that were together enjoying themselves. Weekenders
as we’ve said don’t have the same interest. They would like to
just get away from everything.

We have had our share of those cute little chipmunks in camp,
but there’s nothing like a ‘Charlie Chipmunk’ camper. Into
camp came this obnoxious character with his paramour and
family, a weekender of the worst kind.
At the beach he unloaded an old 20 foot double end Old
Town Canoe from his 1960’s Army truck. They were from the
other side of the Mountains….Duh…Seattle.

‘Charlie Chipmunk’ was loud with a filthy mouth, but not
funny like George Carlin. He yelled at his kids, totally
domineering. ‘Do this’. ‘Collect fire wood’., ‘Get the water’.




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He spied a family across from his site and yelled to them. He
must have recognized them as the guy’s father had given him a
job once. (Once was probably enough.) Here’s his overture:
“Don’t I ‘blankety blank’ know you? Aren’t you Jim’s son,
Dade?. Remember me Your father gave me a job. It got my
‘blankety blank’ going”. Bla…Bla…Bla.
‘Chipmunk Charlie’ and his kind are hard to forget. Not all
weekenders are like him thank goodness.



Edgewater Camp:
We left early in the morning for another U.S. Forest Service
campground. It was on the Pend Oreille River, not far from
Republic, outside of Ione.

It rained a bit, but now in the early evening the sun is back out
and it’s warmed up. The camp host brought us a cup of
huckleberries. That was really nice of them, but we still don’t
know the difference between them and blueberries. Maybe,
their wild and smaller, but just as tasty.

We were pretty busy during our short stay here. We’d made
reservations in Canada at both Banff and Lake Louise
National Parks. It would be really neat if we could paddle in
Lake Moraine which lies between the two of them. Lake
Moraine is an undeveloped glacial lake with mountains peaks
around it. It’s so beautiful that the Canadian 20 dollar bill has
it printed on one side.

I’ve had trouble sleeping the last few nights. We’d read
somewhere that usually one wakes several times during the
night. If it’s light out it’s difficult to fall back to sleep. If dark


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it’s easier. We know about waking several times but think it’s
due to going to the bath room.
For me, the sun is out later and I’m ready to sleep around
8’ish. I may wake around 11 and can’t fall back until 2. Awake
again at 5 and back to sleep until 7. I’d prefer to sleep through
the night. Maybe I’ll wait until 10 to start sleeping.

We’ll move on tomorrow to Sandpoint, Idaho to visit with
cousin Ann Cordes.


























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CHAPTER 4

Northern Idaho:

Idaho may be the most mountainous of all states, yet it
doesn’t have the same volcanic stresses that neighboring
states along the coastline seem to have. There is volcanic ash
residue particularly in the south at the Craters of the Moon
National Monument.
The state has lots of lakes, creating enough water to serve it’s
small and growing population and agriculture, but isn’t known
for it’s contribution to other states. The most important rivers
are the Snake, Salmon and Kootenai. We have driven and
camped along the Snake from its mouth in Yellowstone
National Park, to Massacre Rock State Park in the south to it’s
merger with the Columbia near Lewiston.

Now as we pass through Washington into Sandpoint we recall
how beautiful and lovely the state is.
We’ve often been to Sandpoint as our cousin Ann and her
husband Gordon Cordes lived here. It’s located in the
panhandle of the State.

We are always looking for good kayaking lakes and water ways.
We’ve found many and always think how much fun they
would be.
One of our favorite trips into Sandpoint was along a small
river in Montana. South of Troy along route 56 to the Clark
Fork River, (Known as an off shoot taken by William Clark in
their Lewis & Clark expedition of 1805.).

There are many awesome rivers along the road that beg to be
paddled. The marshes in Montana, the Smith River, near
Great Falls where a permit is required to fish and travel.


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Once we followed the Bull River South of Troy for 30 miles
through valleys, green pastures, and between gaps in the
mountains. At it’s widest it was less than 25 feet. There were
only a few miles that we couldn’t see it flowing, and
never any falls or rapids. It was rural with no ranches, farms
or cabins along it.
This mostly calm flowing river was a dream for us. If we only
had a second vehicle to leave at one end so we could drop our
boats off and later drive back to our input car. As wonderful
as it would be to float down stream in our kayaks it would
surely take several days. We would have to take our sleeping
bags, air mattress, a stove for cooking and extras like wine, gin,
and steaks. Boy, would that be fun, to camp in a pasture
along the river bank.

We were so taken by the Bull River that when we reached its
end at the Clark Ford River we stopped at a real estate shop to
ask if there were any falls along it between Troy and them.
They
didn’t think so, but weren’t sure. Maybe someday we’ll be able
to take that trip.

Each time we’ve visited Sandpoint we’ve stayed in Ann’s drive
behind their house. This was great for us, as several visits had
not worked out, one in a near-by Corp of Engineers
campground. (Our problem was with the hosts’, not the
campground as we’re crazy about COE’s.) and once in a Time
Share at a remote Idaho location.






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Visiting friends or relatives is like taking a vacation from our
travels. You’d think when were traveling that it would be easy
going and comfortable, like a vacation in it’s self. But, that’s
not actually the case. Traveling takes a lot of our energy to
decide where to go, what to do and generally how to live our
lives.
When we visit friends or relatives we usually let them make
many of these decisions and we enjoy where they might want
to take us, sightseeing tours to places you’d never know about
or choose, restaurants, or just visit. Here in Sandpoint it’s
always been relaxing and enjoyable.

They lived on the corner in this lovely house. Both have
passed on; but our last visit was not only in Sandpoint, but also
to their family ranch near Bonners Ferry.





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Ann was in good cheer when we got there. She was up to her
ears cleaning up her home and putting her late husband’s
affairs in order. This was no easy task, as he was a collector of
the highest level, and particularly interested in historical and
ancestral data. We remember how he tutored us from Lewis
and Clark’s manuscripts of their journey from the end of the
Missouri River over the Bittersroot Mountains. And he
showed us his collection of 200 different ‘Potato Mashers’.
(Imagine that; all different.) She had already sent off many
boxes of German and classic books to the University of Idaho,
and still had much more to go.

Ann’s Homestead:
We think our arrival was a break for her as well as for
ourselves. She suggested that we go up to her family ranch. It




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was north of Sandpoint in a remote area near Bonners Ferry,
about 30 miles. She wanted to get several things.
We drove in Ann’s little 2 door Nisson Sentra. It was a stick
shift, which I hadn’t driven for years. We all piled into it, a bit
cramped. Stuttering a bit in first gear we were off. It was so
much fun shifting again, like the old days.

North of Bonners Ferry, across the Kootenai River we turned
off on Turner Hill, a dirt road. We followed the road over the
rolling green hills for a couple of miles. It was easy to drive, as
the road was gravel and graded. We think they lay the rocks
down and run a bull dozer over them, smashing the rocks into
the clay and dirt. It makes a good hard surface.

A turn in the bend and down a small hill we came to the family
homestead. Our first view was the barn and corral on the hill
side.




















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Ann had forgotten the key, but knew there was one on a near-
by tree. She looked around while I checked some metal chains
on the ground, and a few other objects. A shiny key was
hanging behind an old metal spoon. It didn’t seem like a lot
of people traveled this road and for sure no one had broken
into the house.
The house was a two bedroom, single level, with asbestos
board siding. Inside it was pine paneled, and in pretty good
shape after all the years of not being used. It was probably
built by Gordon’s parents, and then updated with the asbestos
in the 1940’s, but still didn’t have any gas, electric or water.
Ann took a couple of Indian paintings off the bedroom wall
and put them into the car.

A local neighbor came by and talked for a while. He was a
rancher, and during the seasons a fishing, hunting, and float
guide. It was interesting listening to him. Guiding float trips
down the Kootenai would take a lot of savvy as it’s a strong
river with lots of rapids and falls.
I wandered outside where there were lots of trees and flowers.















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These flowers didn’t look wild, they just weren’t cared for but
how beautiful.


















At the end of the ranch road I headed down to the horse barn.
It was in bad shape, and as a horse I’d prefer not to be stabled
in it. If we were




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looking for barn boards the sides would have been a treasure,
old, 12 inches wide, and weather beaten . The roof however,
was beyond saving or repair. There wasn’t any live stock, but
the field around it had closely cropped grasses.

















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