Adventure 8: Curlew Lake State Park

A Good Sign Midst the Devastation.

After returning from Priest Lake, the trailer took up residence on the street in front of our house. We washed the lake dust off of it, polished it up, and refreshed the inside. Then we made a trip north to Curlew Lake. It is about 130 miles northeast of Spokane. I wanted to see how the truck would pull the trailer over a long, tough grade. Sherman Pass is a six percent (better in some places) grade that is twenty-six miles long. There were constuction delays and some slow going. I'm happy to report that both truck and trailer performed flawlessly.

Curlew Lake State Park is a quite stunning, if small RV and camping park located on the south shore. It is a favorite of fisherman and families because of the easy boat access. We chose to "boondock" in a grassy area that is the most pleasant space in the park. However, in this area there are no hookups. The hookup circle is in the middle of the park, and from now on will be quite open. The 200 mile wide storm in July hit Ferry County the hardest of any area. Curlew Lake State Park alone lost over eighty trees. Most of the residents in the county were out of power for long periods of time until the utililty poles could be replaced and the lines could be strung. It made us fully aware, once again, of the power of nature.

The biking at Curlew was fabulous. It was about forty miles around the lake with Republic, Washington at one end and Curlew, Washington not far from the other end. We found good bakeries in both places, and we circled the lake in both directions.

It was a long way to pull the trailer, but the riding was good enough to go back. We could spend several longer days riding, which would be quite lovely among the pines and grasslands of Ferry County, a place where life is good, especially today.

Adventure 7: Priest Lake Revisited

Same Spot; Same Photo: New Visit

Until we got to my cousin's cabin, we thought the storm we witnessed on the St. Joe was an isolated event. How wrong we were! We were only just beginning to learn of the range and devestation of the storm. Being part of the most fortunate few, we drove straight from the St Joe river to Priest Lake. It had been our intention to surpirse Douglas and Nora by moving furniture and things back into their cabin before they arrived for the weekend. After ten years, they had had both the inside and the outside of the cabin painted, so furnitiure and things were piled high in the garage. As we drove from Priest River, the twenty-eight miles to the lake, we began to notice an amazing amount of trees blown down. There was evidence that people with chain saws had cleared the road where trees had blocked highway fifty-seven. The closer we got to the lake, the more debri we saw. When we pulled down into the Hoisington driveway, we couldn't believe our eyes. A downed tree cradled by a metal guy wire had clipped the corner of the garage. Damage was minimal because of the guy wire, but the two-hundred foot fully mature fir tree was a massive presence nonetheless. The butt end of the tree, about three feet in diameter was wedged between the roof and the wire. The pressure on both was precarious. Two other large pine trees were down in front of the cabin. One had squashed a good portion of the dock. The other lay across the foot path that runs along the front of the cabin. the cabin itself was spared. In the lots on either side, many trees were down, some hanging in what the loggers call "widow makers".

We were able to situate the trailer, and then I called Douglas. Douglas, who had been in range of electronic information was aware of the situation, but not fully aware of what had happened on his poroperty. I filled him in. It was then that the angel arrived.

His name was Jerrod. He and his parents live on the other side of the lake. He is a linesman by trade and had been taking a week off when the storm hit. It turns out that as a teenager, Jerrod made money by cutting and selling firewood. Now, as an adult, he was offereing his services for quite a little (as it turns out) pocket money because as he said, "A guy can sit on his duff for only so long." The upshot was that I hired him on the spot to limb and buck the fallen trees. He worked hard and well, so well that when Douglas arrived, he hired him for another two days.

We also managed to help Douglas bring his furnishings back into the cabin, and I spent another three days (You call this camping?) helping Douglas stack the fallen wood. The trailer would remain at the lake for much of the next month, including a full week when we had the cabin to ourselves.

That week was highlighted by a visit from our brother-in-law, Kel and his youngest daughter, Kate. Kate took up residence in the trailer while Kel, Judy and I stayed in the cabin. Shortly after that, our grandson made his visit. In all, the trailer rested at the lake for nearly a month. Again, there is no better place to enjoy a life that's good, especially today.

Adventure 6: The St Joe River

First Boondocking Adventure!

The St Joe River, a world class catch and release trout fishing destination, winds its way from St. Maries, Idaho up through the mountains toward Montana. There are a number of organized campgrounds and even more boondocking possibilities along the river. We met friends somewhere around mile marker sixty-eight. It was the first time we actually boondocked, and we stayed five days around mid-July. We had a prime water front site with room for three trailers, easy access to the river, and actually right along the road. Our site was a pull through that was easy enought to level. The only drawback was that the flora and fauna along that stretch is so lushly appointed with tall firs, aromatic cedars, stands of Tamarac, and patches of white Pine that very little sun got through the canopy to power the solar panel. The sacrifice was worth it. Our fire pit sat on a flat patch below the trailers. Just a stone's throw from the water, we enjoy the rippling water both by the fire and as a melody for night sleeping. The bicycle riding is excellent as well. Rides of any distance are possible on a nicely paved road that runs from St. Maries to the top of Idaho, where it becomes gravel. Traffic is light and we rode daily at least thirty miles. We could have stayed longer if we'd have managed our black water better. Battery power was still at thirty percent when we left, and because we brought bottled water to drink, we had plenty of fresh water on board.

We had a quite thrilling event occur the afternoon before we left. We had ridden about twenty miles to Red Ives, a forest service station along the south fork of the river. As we enjoyed our lunch, which we shared with the scavenger birds, we noticed the sky darkening. We decided to make a quick return to camp. Just after we put our bikes away, it began. Huge wind and golf ball sized hail rained down on us like the plagues of Egypt. The noise was deafening; the hail hurt us as we quickly tried to square the loose ends of camp away. Finally, as I stood under the awning of the trailer wondering whether it would withstand the wind, even though it was mostly rolled up, I noticed the water. The hail was causing simultaneous splashes like frozen scud missiles to burst from the river. I must have been mesmerized by the splashes because I didn't hear or notice the one-hundred foot cedar tree just below me to the left that was flattened by the force of the wind. the storm ended as quickly as it came, but it lasted a good fifteen minutes. The winds were in excess of fifty, and the temperature dropped about twenty degrees. As we surveyed the wrath of nature, we noticed the cedar, which was three feet in diameter at its base. It was now toppled and lay across the river like the beginning of a beaver's dam. Limbs and debri were everywhere, and many other trees along the road were down. As experienced northwesterners, we'd all seen quick and vilent storms before, especially in the mountains. We didn't think much of it. In fact, we thought we had just experienced a micro-climate event. Nonetheless, it was awesome. The trailers suffered no damage, but we did have to clean annoying limb debri from every crevice the traliler offered. Since we were out of cell phone range, we didn't realize the extent of the storm, but it was over two-hundred miles wide, downed hundreds of trees, left thousands without power, damaged or ruined many structures, and killed at least four people. All in all, one tree down in the camp ground made us feel lucky.

I'm glad the next event happened in remote north Idaho and not some busy RV park anywhere else. When we were emptying our brim full black water tank, the pressure of the fluids unhinged the hose causing nasty spillage. I learned that I shouldn't lift the stop gate so quickly and I also learned to tighten the hose clamp more securely. Anyway, after extensive cleanup, we were on our way; no one was the wiser about our ineptness. In the final analysis, it was an exquisite boondocking trip into some of the most beautiful country in our area, assuring one more claim that life is good, especially today.

Adventure 5: Priest Lake One

First Overnight at Noraville.

As an accident of birth, I'm forntunate enough to be the favorite cousin of Douglas Hoisington, who along with his lovely wife, Nora, own a cabin on Rosalia Bay at eight mile island on Priest Lake. Arguably, Priest Lake's grand natural spectacle rivals any place on earth. For the new trailer adventurer, cruising down the narrow, tree lined dirt road to the cabin proved a monumental leap of faith and new found confidence in my ability to maneuver the trailer. It turned out well. I backed through and around several welcoming pine trees into a spot just behind the cabin. Using the wheel shims, I leveled the trailer and all was well. It wasn't quite boondocking because we ran an exension cord from the garage for power, and while we didn't, we could have also hooked into the water system. And it was free. We spent Memorial Day weekend witht the Hoisingtons, and the best part is that we left the trailer parked at the lake for a return visit the following weekend. Not only were we able to enjoy the hospitality of Douglas, Nora, and their daughters, but we also enjoyed the cabin by ourselves the next weekend. I can think of no place I'd rather be than Priest Lake. I've journied there every year (oftentimes more than once) since 1967. If I had the proper skill set, I'd live their year round. Alas, I don't. I'm just a sissy boy from the city who has the good fortune to be able to enjoy the lake during its prime season. So naturally, life is good, especially today.

Adventure 4: Heyburn State Park

Easy Pull

Just an hour door to door from our house awaits one very cool RV campsite. Tucked on the edge of the St Joe river delta at the bottom end of Lake Coeurd 'Alene, Heyburn State Park is perched just above the water. There are about fifty RV sites as well as some of the best tent camping sites to be had in Idaho. There is power and water, free showers, and the camp ground enjoys the gentle scent from pine trees all around. Aside from the convenience, the best part is that the park has a paved connecting road to the Trail of the Coeurd 'Alenes bicycle trail, which is a seventy-two mile paved rail trail that starts in Plummer, Idaho and ends in Mullan, Idaho. From the campground, the road meets the trail about five miles east of Plummer. It is eleven miles to Harrison, Idaho from the campground. Few trails offer what the Trail of the Coeurd 'Alenes offers. It is a three percent (flat) grade that follows the Coeurd 'Alene river toward Mullan. Moose and birds can be seen, usually a southwerestly wind can be felt, and the green river beckons like ribbon in the hair of lovely girl. Cars are forbidden, and the trail easily transports the imaginative mind back to the time of gold, silver, Jesuits, and Christian conversion. It's fabulous. For bikers like us, a place like this makes life very good, especially today.

Adventure 3: Harris Park, Umatilla County

Some Light Fare We call Thin Gruel.

Thirteen miles east of Milton-Freewater, Oregon at the end of a blind draw, the small but picturesque Harris RV park awaits. Spots can and should be reserved. The park has fifteen spots or so, a host of amenities mostly aimed at families, and a comfortable, friendly feeling. We visited in April, so access was easy, although the park was full by evening of our arrival on Friday. It was the first time I'd backed the trailer into a site. I was a little tight on one side, but I didn't scrape any of the aluminum off, so I kept the first try. We stayed two nights. The first morning, we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and then rode forty miles in and around Milton-Freewater. To begin, we coasted the thirteen miles back into town and then meandered along flat roads among the fruit trees. The riding was pleasant. It was warm, little wind, and even the climb back to the campground was gentle. We packed up the next morning, parked the rigs in Waitsburg, WA. From there we rode a forty mile loop around the wheat fields. While beautiful, our springtime conditioning was suspect in terms of easily riding the sharply steep hills around Walla Walla. Nonetheless, the adventure proved to be exactly what we needed, if not exactly what we wanted. Regardless, in the end we all felt that life was good, especially today.

A tight fit and a little too far right, but it worked.

Our tandem buddies, the Ulmen's.

Adventure 2: Maryhill State Park

Ready for Gourmet Action.

Across the river from Biggs Junction, Oregon, nestled under the cliff on the north side of the Columbia River sits an exquisite state park with a circular layout that includes several pull through sites along with several spacious back in sites. Because it was early March, we had our choice of sites. During the peak season finding a spot on short notice would be impossible. We chose a pull through site, which was so level and spacious we didn't unhook. We spent two enjoyable nights. Each day we climbed aboard our tandem bicycle and stepped as lively as two sixty somethings could up the road to the edge of the cliff. Though short, the grade is steep and provided quite and early season challenge. We rode fifteen miles each day. Upon leaving we enjoyed our first ever dump station experience, which I/m happy to say emptied without incident.

Encouraged, we crossed the Columbia River, climbed the grade out of Biggs, and headed south down highway 97 toward Madras, Oregon to visit my parents. This was the first time we'd pulled the trailer any distance, and I was still nervous about the side clearance, the traveling speed, and a hundred other things any nervous nellie might fret over. We stopped in a little town at the top of the ridge called Grass Valley where we pulled off to the side right on the main road. We unloaded the tandem and rode a thirty mile loop on the local backroads. The cycling, while a bit hilly, was great in the fact that the traffic was light, the road was smooth, and my stoker (Judy) was strong and steady. The scenery included the scrub brown stubble of spring farmland and a spectacular view of Mt. Adams to the north. After about two hours and a little lunch, which we enjoyed at our table inside the trailer, we were off toward Madras.


Arriving at my dad's house presented my first backing challenge. His driveway was just long enough and two cars wide. After just two tries I managed to get over to one side enough to allow his car out of the garage. We unhooked the trailer and "camped" in his driveway. We spent two nights and on the second, we watched the NCAA championship baskteball game on the trailer TV using nothing but the antenna on the trailer. Fun. The excitement began the day we were to leave. When I unhooked, the stem of the trailer came to rest on the slant of the driveway. This caused the mechanism to bind a little. It also highlighted a defect in the lift mechanism. It turns out that our used trailer had a faulty lift switch. Because the tilt of the driveway put a little extra pressure on the stem, the foot wouldn't raise. "This would be a great time to read the owner's manual," I quipped in some version of stilted French. After that useless tirade, I began dissasembling the lift hood so I could lift the stem manually. Unfortunately, I discovered my tool chest didn't have the right size ratchet head. I needed a twelve point extra long 7/16 inch. I had a six point extra short 7/16 inch. Fortunately, my dad's tool box, a much more complete version, coming as it did from a generation when US steel was king, had the right part. Thankfully, we were then able to manually lift the stem. I learned some valuable lessons that day. The first thing I did when I got home was buy the exact extra long twelve point 7/16 inch fitting and added it to my tool chest. The second thing I did was buy two electric lifting switches. One I keep as a back up, and one I changed out to replaced the failed one. Lastly, I learned that it's not a good idea to rest the trailer on a slanted surface. Lessons learned.

On the way home we made our final stop at a fancy RV park in downtown Walla Walla. Again, because it was off season, we had our pick of sites. We chose a pull through, left the truck hooked up because of the failed lift, and thoroughly enjoyed our stay. The park, around $40 dolloars included power/water/sewer/cable/coin operated laundry/showers. Every site was fully paved. In fact, the place had no scenic ambience at all. What it did boast was location. We were able to ride our tandem right out of the driveway and do a forty mile loop north toward Waitsburg in some of the most beautiful wheat fields a person can see. The roads were paved, void  of cars, and while chilly, the day was bright and sunny. I'd stay at the RV park again just because it's so close to some spectacular bicycle country. In addition, it is walking distance from downtown Walla Walla, a very nice town to visit. In all, the second adventure of Fric and Frac, while not painless, proved once again that life is good, especially today.

Adventure 1: The Sprague Motel

Fric

Frac

Our very first adventure began when we pulled out of the Airstream lot towing our "new to us" 23' International, and headed West on I-90 toward Sprague.  We arrived about dusk and gently puled into one of a half dozen gravel slabs nestled behind the old Srague Motel in an area that doubles as a most inglorious RV park. Bordering one edge of the park was a row of tired single wides barely hidden behind a weathered fence as tired as the forgotten town. Beyond the opposite border was an expanse of dryland, which was part basalt heave and part scraggily wheat field. Had it been light, we'd probably have just turned around and driven home, but we were ready as children about to find excitement. I began connecting water and power to the trailer, the procedures still fresh in my mind from the two hour orientation we'd just been through. Happy enough, we had electric power and were just about to engage the propane furnace when I heard the sound of splashing water. Thinking I had hooked the water up incorrectly, I went out into the dark, flashlight in hand, to investigate. I soon realized the fresh water tank was spewing water out its bottom as fast as the Sprague city water came in. So there I was, wriggling on my back in the damp gravel, flashlight nestled under my chin, learning the newly obvious truth about the water tank's drain valve: it closes opposite to the lefty-loosy rule. Drenched but not forlorn, I finally solved the mystery, and we proceeded to spend a fitful night acclimating ourselves to the hums, clicks, and gurgles of our new home on wheels. Inauspicious as the first night may have been, the new morning reminded us that life is clearly good, especially today.