When sweet Emily was about 3 years old, she gave me a cup like this one. It was the first present that she ever picked out for Rob. He used it for at least 25 years before it cracked. Incredibly, Emily just found an identical one for Rob on eBay. See the additional word she added?
Our first grandchild! Emily and Stuart are expecting a baby in February!
RV’ers pick up stories to tell, and taking your house on wheels across a country border may generate one. Especially if you are dragging a pickup truck along with you.
In the Vancouver area, there are two border crossing a few miles apart. Trucks have to use the Pacific Border crossing. Passenger vehicles can use either the Peace Arch crossing or the Pacific Border crossing. Our destination was the Pacific Border RV Park, just across the border at 175th Street and 0 Avenue. 0 Avenue is the border. One of us has a gut feeling that we should mix in with all the other tourists at the Peace Arch crossing, because maybe the other one has more staff to search trucks, increasing the likelihood we would be searched. But one of us points out that our RV park is actually on border, next door to the Pacific Border crossing. We go to Pacific Border.
First there are the usual questions; where do you live, where are you going, where are you staying, why, how long. How long have you been traveling and where have you been since you left home. Then, do you have a gun. Apparently, he’s thinking; An American with an RV and a pickup truck; he’s got to have a gun.
No, we don’t have a gun. Do you own a gun? Yes. You don’t have a gun in that truck? No. Why? Because I didn’t want to bring a gun into Canada. You have been traveling extensively across the western United States, you didn’t have your gun with you? No, we didn’t bring a gun.
He doesn’t believe me. “That officer will show you where to park. Take this paper into the building and go to Counter A.”
Different officer. Repeat of the normal questions. He takes our passports and keys and tells us to have a seat. For the next 45 minutes, three border guards go through the truck and through every drawer and cabinet in our motorhome. There has to be a gun in that sock drawer, right? At one point, an officer comes in and says they can’t get the slides out. Jane offers to show them. After she opens the slides, she asks if she can stay. They tell her to go back into the building.
We didn’t hear, “Welcome to Canada,” but we were given our passports and keys and told we could go. Our destination, Canada! We made it!
We know our way to the Pacific Border RV park because we had checked it out when we visited Emily and Stuart back in February. We did not have an RV at that time, but had decided on the one we were going to get. Besides, the RV park is literally on the border. While we set up, Emily and Stuart are on the way to see us. We enjoy showing them the RV and we have a celebratory glass of wine (or sip, as appropriate). The air is good, the sun is out. We’re elated.
Some of you have mentioned gas prices. Having a gasoline engine in the RV and the length of the rig when towing the truck presents problems. The Ford E450 Super Duty V-10 engine has performed very well for us, but getting into and out of the gas lanes is tough. Diesel powered RV’s, towing or not, can use the truck lanes at truck stops to get fuel. We can’t use the truck lanes because we need gasoline. We have to carefully scan a gas station to try to see if we can get to the pump and also have a clear way out. We have had to pull into and immediately out of a few stations and drive further down the road. When we find pumps we can get into and out, we don’t even look at the price. Flying J is the only place that has dedicated RV lanes with both gas and diesel pumps. I love Flying J; there are just not many of them.
Speaking of fuel, I feel sorry for Lewis and Clark and their men. I don’t know how they made it out here without peanut butter and pimento cheese. Those staples have fueled this party across the West.
Dreams of Coeur d’Alene. Ski Bashinsky was one of my mentors during my first year as a lobbyist at the Georgia state capitol. He was in the association management business, serving as executive director of the Georgia Funeral Directors Association and the Georgia Land Surveyors Association. He attended a meeting in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho and told me about the golf course. This course has a green that is floating in Lake Coeur d’Alene. Cables are attached to the green by which the superintendent adjusts the length of the hole each day. Once you hit your ball to the green, you are transported to the green in a boat. I’ve had this golf course on my bucket list for over 30 years. Back in April, we made reservations at the Coeur d’Alene Resort on the lake and I booked a tee time for the long-anticipated golf round. I even had a parking spot for the RV picked out in town via satellite maps while we stayed two days at the resort.
Adieu Coeur d’Alene. We don’t even stop. This is the smoke-obstructed view of Coeur d’Alene Lake as we drove by on I-80. I don’t think I need to describe the disappointment. Oh, well, saved some money.
We drove through the skinny part of northern Idaho and landed in Spokane at the end of the day, just over the Washington state border. It’s very smoky. There is a Camping World at the exit. We look in vain for an air purifier. An employee inside the store is wearing a mask.
Back in the RV in the parking lot of the store, we try to settle where we will stay the next night. Since we are now ahead of schedule by a few days, we need to change our reservation in Issaquah, just south of Seattle. Our last campsite in the U.S. was intended to put us in easy striking distance of the Canadian border so that we would arrive at the border in the early afternoon. We wanted our biggest challenge of the day to be the Canadian Border Patrol and Customs, and not dealing with that at the end of a long day of driving. We’ve never crossed a country border carrying a house, refrigerator, bar, food, etc.
Issaquah is full; there are no spots available for tomorrow night. We call eight campgrounds along our route through Seattle to the border, with no luck. The air is good in the coastal area; maybe everyone has already headed that way. One of us wanted to overnight at a Walmart lot in the Seattle area. One of us did not agree to that plan. We get a recommendation from the woman behind the counter in Camping World. She tells us that her favorite campground is near Leavenworth. “And it’s on the highway you should take anyway.” That would turn out to be inaccurate. But getting a little desperate, we call and book it.
Now we drive the short distance to the Spokane KOA. Parking for a few moments in front of the campground office to check in, I was concerned about arriving vehicles not being able to see the back of our dark gray truck in the late afternoon smoky air. I turn on the parking lights in the RV and find that the lights on the back of our Chevy Colorado towed vehicle are not on. I’m concerned, but since I do not plan to drive the rig after dark, it’s not critical right now.
The next day becomes one of our longest and most difficult driving days. The helpful lady at Camping World who traced the straight line on the map with her finger must have forgotten that her favorite camping resort was in the middle of the Cascades over steep, curvy, two-lane mountain roads. After leaving Interstate 90, we see apples being harvested, packing plants, and lots of huge double trailer trucks loaded with apples. U.S. Highway 2 starts climbing into the mountains. We go through Leavenworth, then turn off onto a state route. The road becomes narrower and steeper. They are working on it; we were stopped several times. And, out here, they don’t just lay down another layer of asphalt. They dig up all the pavement and start over. We are on dirt and gravel several miles before reaching the camp. This was the day I was planning on all interstate driving! We finally found the place at what seemed to be the end of the earth, just before dark, of course (much better than after dark). There are no pull-through sites. We don’t see a good place to unhook. The lady tells us to drive through the gate, then turn left and there is plenty of room. I guess she hasn’t ever unhooked a tow vehicle. The gravel lot is unlevel and it not long enough to even straighten the rig. The RV’ers out there know this is not a good position for unfastening tow bars. We have the most trouble unhooking we have ever had. That delicate tool, the hammer, is called into service.
This would actually be a nice place to vacation. For an overnight stopping place? No. We locate a large, private, back-in site surrounded by large trees. It’s a very nice site. The huge trees are covered with dust and ash. In the clubhouse the next day, we view maps of downhill, cross country, and snowshoe trails for winter recreation. The place includes attractive cabins and the Chiwawa River is nearby. There is also a swimming pool, but it is closed due to falling ash. That night, the name of our Chevy truck reveals itself to us: Smoky!
We had to stay two nights. It was just too difficult to get into and out of the place.
In the common area, there are exhibits on the history of the area. The campground is 18 miles into the hills from the town, but Leavenworth and all of the towns along U.S. 2 were created by the Great Northern Railroad. A man in Minneapolis dreamed of laying a railroad from that city to the Pacific ocean. Audacious. He hired a surveyor who located the mountain passes, tunnel sites, and level spots along the Skykomish River for the trains to take on water and wood. These clearings along the way became towns. Restless wanderers and fortune seekers moved in by the hundreds. Wood for railroad trestles needed to be cut and lumber for houses, stores, bars and brothels. One adventurous man traveled up the river in a canoe with his Indian wife, founded a new town, and became the very successful town patriarch.
Interestingly, Leavenworth, Washington is another Helen, Georgia. I don’t know who had the idea first, but Leavenworth has been converted into a Bavarian village.
The trip out was not too bad, once we got out of the campsite, anyway. That road work we dealt with two days before had just reached the entrance to the campground at the same moment that we were trying to get out. We were blocked from entering the roadway for 20 minutes.
We headed through the mountains on the highway that followed the path of the river and the Great Northern Railway (one of the predecessors of the present day Burlington Northern Santa Fe), and toward the coast. The road through mountain passes, occasional views of the Skykomish River and railroad trestles, was pretty. We were slowed, of course, by more road work.
Ahh … finally over the last pass. Out of the woods, northbound on Interstate 5, and fresher air. Next stop: the border!
Rerouting from Glacier, we still want to be on a route toward Vancouver. The smoke maps indicate that Missoula has acceptable air. The maps are updated each morning, but of course, smoke will move where the wind wants to go.
It wasn’t an easy drive. We are tired when we arrive at the Missoula KOA. It’s in a very developed area, surrounded by Costco, Target, Walmart, Home Depot, etc. Home here in Generica.
At the campground, before we can get out of the coach, a woman in a car is hollering and waving. It’s about our Gwinnett Georgia tag. She lives in Missoula and doesn’t see any Gwinnett tags. Her 11 year old daughter was born at Gwinnett Medical Center and it was her daughter’s birthday, so the lady introduced us to her daughter and enjoyed the memories the unexpected encounter evoked. She had worked in Suwanee and was presently employed with a Duluth company, working remotely.
The air is horrible. My sinuses are now in full revolt. We decide we need an air purifier and masks. We visit seven stores. No luck. All the stores report that they sell out as fast as they can get them in. We stay indoors (or in RV, if that’s indoors), shop for groceries and eat out for dinner. Famous Dave’s claims award winning ribs. I would give it awards. The best ribs I’ve ever had. Best baked beans, too.
At Sean Kelly’s Stone of Accord Irish pub we joined hands through the stone of accord.
And he went out not knowing where he was going.
Hebrews 11:8
I’m keeping up with Bible reading using the great YouVersion Bible app on my phone. Strangely, this verse was included in my reading this morning.
At our campsite at Prewett Creek, we told a neighbor that we were headed to Glacier. They mentioned the fires. A woman nearby overhead the conversation and walked over to Jane and said, “I don’t know how much you know about it, but Glacier is on fire. I don’t think you can go there.”
Our itinerary for that day included visiting the buffalo jump 28 miles from Prewett Creek before continuing to Glacier. We were not able to use the internet at the campsite, so we hit the road literally not knowing where we would go after the Buffalo Jump. We were pretty sure we weren’t going to make it to Glacier, but we wanted to call the campground when we got a cell signal.
When we arrived at the First Peoples Buffalo Jump State Park near Ulm, there were only two cars in the parking lot and some huge RV parking spots. We parked on the outer edge looking out at miles of expansive landscape (though the visibility was reduced by smoke).
There was a good cell signal here. We called the campsite at Glacier and concluded that, even though the campground (outside the park) was open, some roads in the park were closed and the smoke was bad and getting worse. Our carefully planned itinerary had worked well for us. Until this moment.
We went to work on Plan B. We studied the road map and fire reports and smoke maps. It seemed the only option was to head to Missoula. The most direct route, Highway 200, was closed because of fire. We had to backtrack to Helena on I-15, then take Highway 12 through the steep MacDonald Pass before connecting to I-90 into Missoula. With a new route mapped, we used the truck to visit the top of the buffalo jump before beginning the 200 mile drive to Missoula.
First Peoples Buffalo Jump State Park contains the Ulm Pishkun, a buffalo jump used by Native American tribes in this area. Pis’kun is a Blackfeet word meaning “deep kettle of blood.” The Indians would herd hundreds of buffalo over the cliff. After the slaughter, in addition to harvesting hides and meat, blood would be boiled in deep bowls in the ground to be used in other food. Ulm Pishkun is the largest buffalo jump in North America. There are over 300 buffalo kill sites in Montana. Archaeologists have found that the remains of bones extend the entire mile of the jump for a depth of 13 feet.
As you can tell, I love the openness here. I’d like to see it when the air returns to its typical Montana freshness. But I want to share several more photos to try to reflect how wide the landscape is. As someone said out here, “It’s the kind of place where you can watch your dog run away for three days.”
We left Yellowstone heading to Glacier National Park. Prewett Creek RV Park, eight miles outside Cascade, Montana, was our overnight stop along the way. I checked the satellite view and told Jane, “It’s a dinky place in the middle of nowhere. I think we’ll either love it or hate it.”
If there is such a thing as a lonely stretch of interstate highway, this was it. The landscape along Interstate 15 was stark but beautiful. The smoke was becoming more obvious as we traveled northward. It was very hot, in the high nineties. Jane said, “I thought it would get colder as we got close to the glaciers.” I also was surprised by how hot it was.
We have a Garmin that is especially for RV’s. It knows the height, length, and weight of our rig and is supposed avoid low bridges, tunnels, U-turns, and other hazards. It’s the latest model, and the software and maps are the latest available. I don’t trust it. The first time we used it, we programmed it for Mistletoe State Park near Augusta, Georgia. When we turned off Interstate 20 onto a nicely paved wide state highway, it flashed a warning that the road was of unknown suitability for an RV. As soon as we get off the interstate highway, according to Garmin, we maybe shouldn’t be there at all. Thanks, Garmin, how useful for campers.
So now I have both Google Maps, Garmin, and my live navigator giving me directions. Sometimes they agree. Nearing our destination, Google said to get off the next exit. Garmin said to go 4 miles further before leaving the highway. Since I am skeptical of the Garmin, and it has messed us up at least once, I went with the nearer exit. This time, Garmin was right. There are no houses, businesses, even no ranches visible here. The ever-present Missouri River is here, the interstate highway, Old Highway 91, and a railroad track all follow the river. A minute after exiting the interstate, we found ourselves approaching an old metal one lane bridge. A sharp curve at the other side of the bridge prevented a view of oncoming traffic. No one was going to be able to enter the bridge from that end at any speed, though, due to the sharp turn. Fortunately there was no other vehicle in sight.
After crossing the bridge on Old Highway 91, we saw the entrance to the campground. There was a closed up motel and a little store sharing the driveway. A railroad track was on the opposite side of the old highway. There were a few houses on the dirt road that crossed the railroad track. The owner of the park directed us to our site. She said that big horn sheep had been hanging around there for several days. The place was surrounded by craggy hills that looked like sheep belonged on them. It is funny that we did not see any big horn sheep in Yellowstone. We didn’t have any idea what to expect from Prewett Creek campground, but it was unexpectedly pleasant. Even despite the smoky air.
When we walked across the road to look for sheep, we saw that the houses were on the river and they were pretty nice houses. A woman drove out of her driveway near us, her late model Audi looking out of place in this dusty, remote place. She stopped to talk to the strangers. She had returned to the house on the river where her parents had once lived. She said she was just going down the road a couple of miles and if she saw the sheep she would come back and tell us where they were. As soon as she drove away, they appeared. Some were grazing in the small green yards of the houses along the river.
We noticed the road went to the riverbank. There was a public fishing area. Apparently, campers were allowed to park there, no facilities.
The river was beautiful. These locals definitely know how to have fun on the river.
We found the setting sun and landscape beautiful. The smoky air creates a different dimension to the sunset.
We stayed at the Fishing Bridge RV Park within Yellowstone. They are careful to call it an RV Park at the same time they say, “Hard Sided Vehicles Only. No tents.” So we can sleep without being interrupted by bears. 
Since we are sleeping inside a volcano, we realize the limitations of the protection.
No tents and no fires. But it’s “camping.”
I have been thrilled by descriptions of Old Faithful as long as I can remember. It was faithful yet again today. I stood there, exulting, imprinting it in my mind. I’m actually seeing it! Now, on this … day, uh, … day of August. Oh, never mind, I don’t know what day it is. Who cares, it’s a great day.
Probably since the days when I watched Yogi Bear Jellystone cartoons on TV, I thought that was every American would spend a two-week summer vacation at Yellowstone National Park. I didn’t know I would be an old man when I got there. But I did get there. We drove our rig right through the arch where Teddy Roosevelt established the world’s first national park. They’ve moved the road so that the traffic doesn’t generally go through it. I was determined to do it. I parked nearby and walked around to discern the path. I love these photos.
It didn’t take long to spot an elk.
After leaving the visitors center, one of us thought we should head to Mammoth Hot Springs since it was nearby. The other one pointed out the time of day and said we should head for the campground. We agreed after we were moving, necessitating a turn around. We were at one of the places at Yellowstone National Park where the rig could readily turn around. But, leaving the spot, we were suddenly presented with a choice of roads. One of us thought we should go on one road and the other one thought we should go on the other road. We went on the other road. Wow, all my plans to avoid the hardest roads were voided in a split second. Both roads will get you to our destination, Fishing Bridge. We ended up on the narrowest road, one that climbed over Dunraven Pass over Mt. Washburn. Jane was at the wheel. The road was extremely narrow and the switchbacks were acute. There was no way to keep the rig and all the wheels of the truck on the pavement at the same time. My eyes were darting from the view ahead through the windshield, to the view of the truck trailing behind in the rear view camera. In some places the drop off from the pavement was so large, I was afraid that, when the rear wheels of the truck dropped off the pavement, the truck would start over the precipice and pull all of us over the side of the mountain. I literally had to cover my eyes at times!
That poor engine. I feel sorry for it. The elevation of the pass is 8,859 feet. The elevation of the North Entrance is 5,600. That Ford was screaming. The gas E450 Super Duty V-10 has the power, but it was screaming and gasping for oxygen at 9,000 feet. It had a 14,600 pound house on its back and 5,000 pounds of “dead” weight dragging behind. There was no place to pull off; nothing to do but grip the wheel and pray for the best. Finally we reached the top of the pass and there was a turnout with one space large enough for the rig. Thank the good Lord no one else was in it. We pulled off, mashed the parking brake to the floor, turned the engine off, and took deep breaths. (All four of us.) One of the reasons we had been towing this truck all the way from Georgia was to be able to enjoy roads like this in a smaller vehicle.
The parking spot was actually just this side of the crest. It was significantly sloped. As you RV’ers know, you want to connect and disconnect the towed vehicle on as flat a spot as possible. We considered the making the downhill run as is, or whether to attempt to disconnect. I wasn’t sure we could get the tow bar lose with that slope, but we did. Before removing those pins, I made sure Jane was in the truck in case it broke away and started over the cliff.
The downhill run was a piece of cake. Jane piloted the truck and said it felt effortless. The RV also seemed relatively easy, even before the road straightened out. Before reaching Fishing Bridge, we ran through Lamar Valley, where the wildlife congregates late in the afternoon. Now we had to drive around bison and throngs of people in the road. We made it to Fishing Bridge, as is typical, just before dark. This isn’t how we planned it, but reality doesn’t give a whit about plans.
I’m waiting in the RV, parked behind the truck while Jane registers. A woman walks up and takes a photo of the license plate on the truck. This is the first of several incidences in national parks when people would take pictures of the Georgia plates. That one’s hard to find.
Jane goes first to guide me in. Somehow Jane gets away from me; I don’t see the truck. I’m rounding a sharp curve in the camping loop, not knowing where I’m headed, looking for the truck and trying to watch out for kids on bikes. It’s getting hard to see. Rounding the curve very slowly, I see what looks like a black bean bag land on a board. The loop is so tight, I can only see part of the board. A red bag lands. I start thinking. Then I see the Georgia “G” on the corn hole board. I stop and holler, “I like those colors!”, and get a “Go Dawgs!” response.
We get set up. The beer tastes good. I wonder what the next adventure will be.
We could have shortened our driving time by entering Yellowstone at the East entrance. But I, Rob, was intent on entering the Park at the North entrance through the Roosevelt Arch in Gardiner, Montana. Also, I determined that the roads from that direction into the park were better for driving an RV towing a car (truck, in our case). We drove through a corner of Wyoming and into Montana to Billings. We camped at the Billings KOA on banks of the Yellowstone River. One thing different about this campground is that they cooked and served steak and ribs outside. At dinner, we met Mike and Mary, also headed to Yellowstone, from Jacksonville, Illinois. I had never heard of Jacksonville, Illinois before this trip. The men we met in Mexico, Missouri during the eclipse were also from that town. Mike and Mary had been to Glacier 17 times. Mike told us the places to eat, drink, and hike in Glacier. This is their first time visiting the park in a camper.
It’s 96° in Lodge Grass, Montana 4 p.m., on the way to 98. There has been no rain out here for three months.
When we first experienced the big sky views of South Dakota, we were surprised by how hazy it was there. It looked like the Smoky Mountains in July, but I knew the humidity was very low. I found that the reported air quality was unhealthy – particulate matter. That was our first encounter with the forest fire smoke that would plague us for more than a week.
