It was a rash rush up the hill to go find Hambone & Friends Of The Dripping Ferns at 7:30PM after my day with 83AC. I had no idea where I was going. I had no real idea how far. I knew I was good for about 65-80 miles with a full tank of gas before the pump would get upset from a lack of head pressure.
"I have
always found my customers," said me to myself.
"But this is in a forest at night," said myself to I.
My directions scrawled on a paper towel in Bic blue said,
"Come on! It's easy! 35 south, 26 south, right on Forest 42, right on Peavine, there it is on the left! Summit Lake campground."
Topped up the tank in The Dalles. On the first good hill to Odell, the engine hiccoughed:
Beautiful country up there on Rt 35 south towards Government Camp. Mount Hood loomed beautifully larger for the first time in my life. I shall see Hambone in his element. This I wanted to see.
The fuel filter decided I needed to take a break. The fuel HOSE decided I needed to stay here until usable light was gone. The hose had just begun to leak at a hitherto unseen point upstream of the filter. Trimmed the hose to just a tad too short to reach the filter with a bit of a pull, could not get the hose to go over the filter. The hose, you see, had apparently gone rock hard brittle in just seven months and would not stretch over the filter nipple. Finally tore it, bunched it, chewed it up on the inside diameter, crammed it on the filter all while fuel dripped out of the hose because my new clamp position upstream was unfamiliar with being squeezed. Barely enough lap to get the clamp on. Oy vey, but hey, ain't it beyootiful here?
Little nip to the air, light is failing, how am I going to see road signs in the dark? Stopped at a closed Chevron and topped off again. Took this shot along US 26. Never been so close to Mount Hood, The Sleeping Volcano. Camera does not show the little lights of what must have been climbers (?). Heat coming out of the footwells is great. I'm doing this.
Darkness fell. The road goes on and on. Saw a brown sign that read, and I quote, "Forest Road 42." Aw hell, this will be easy. I thought Hambone et.al. roughed it . . . pshaw, paved and striped roads out here! Heh, he probably photographs Ma just on the dirt driveways to his camp sites. Fuel pump begins to sing. I slow to 30 mph in 4th and just cruise along the road quietly in the moonlight. Tree silhouettes jot the sky and illuminated branches crowd the sides of the road. Rush up to my first pickle. The road splits to the right and the left with a triangle in the middle of the intersection. Timothy Lake thataway. I don't remember Timothy Lake. Neither does my napkin. Brietenbush? towards the left is some horrifying 82 miles through these trees. No road numbers to assist my choice. I don't trust my fuel supply. It is 10:00PM or something. How does the wizened forest denizen Hambone make his way around without road signs? I pick the horrifying fork. I don't see any validation that I am still on Forest Road 42. No wonder people die out here (do people die out here? - ed) I see a sign to the left "Oregon Skyline Road" and remember that I am to stay right. I must be on 42. Oh but hey, the road is shrinking down to a single lane. Intersection after intersection, little roads bristling off the "main" single lane road I am on, any one of them could be Peavine.
"You are an idiot," says me.
"Aw shut up," says I. I have a rule that says 1/2 tank is always a turn around point if out in unknown parts. We are still well within the 3/4 point, even if the fuel pump is buzzing like a mosquito. Many miles later, where is Peavine? The moon is now coming throught the driver's side window, and that is not a good sign. It is not a good sign because my napkin said that 42 was a southbound road and Peavine was a westbound road.
I flag down an oncoming vehicle (not hard to do on a one lane road). A nice lady out at 11:20PM in the middle of nowhere tells me that I am indeed on 42.
"Are you going to Ollalie?"
"No, I am going to a gas station."
"Out here, you won't find one."
"That is what I am gathering quickly. I was supposed to be visiting a group of fellow VW campers at Summit Lake. Do you know where Peavine Road is?"
"No. I am supposed to be directing a group of hikers tomorrow at (can't remember-ed)."
"My fuel pump wants me to find Peavine soon, but my common sense says find a gas station."
"If you stay on 42, it will turn into 46 which takes you to 224 which goes to Estacada, it has gas. If you take 4230 to SE Oregon Skyline Road which is 4220 to Ollalie Lake Resort, they may have gas in the morning."
"'Kay, thanks, thanks for stopping, good night."
Are you kidding? I think to myself. I missed one stupid road already, that is all it takes to just wander the forest until I am eaten by a bear next to my stone cold car and a tattered NAPKIN scrawled with directions. Darwin AWARD!
Drove up and down, right and left, slowly and with frequent double-clutches into 3rd on mild hills, coasting down in neutral, catching 4th at the bottom and I drove and drove and watched the fuel gauge and ignored the pump and flicked the fuel filter with my finger with the engine off to dislodge little blockages at the inlet and by and by, found 46 in the night along some Calackitacactimus River. And after thirteen thousand curves and some Riverford Campground, 46 found 224. And 224 ran across Ranger Stations and Ripplebrook Campgrounds and more curves and hills and the pump just dropped me dead up from some Timber Lake Job Corps Civilian whatever. I crashed out dead exhausted.
"Go back to Hood River and blame the filter for not seeing Hambone & Camping Crew, how the hell do I get back to Hood River? z-z-z-z-z-z"
Awoke at a weigh station. Cleaned the filter. Leaky hose not happy. Hit the road. Pulled off at a logging site entrance at a crest of a hill. Stripped down in the welcome sunshine and performed a religious cleansing ritual with a Motel 6 bucket of Tide and Chlorox. Barely unbare when a voice calls out,
"How's your fuel pump?"
What the? It was the nice lady in the Jeep.
"I saw your camper and wanted to see if you needed a ride into Estacada."
"Well that is very nice of you, but I need to just fix it, I have the parts I need."
"We are not doing the hike today. Are you sure you don't need a ride? I can give you a ride. I got all day."
"Thanks, but I need to fix this and try to find the campsite after I fuel up in Esta, Esta, Estacama?"
"Cada."
Heard a pair of Volkswagens drive by. Heard them slow immediately.
Met Chachi and his Vanagon and Mary and tristessa. We sure did go over the directions, yes we did. Wrote new notes on the other side of the humiliated napkin. I ranted about the "cheap new fuel hoses hardly last six months". They pulled out (note to self: tristessa's bus sounds pretty good!) , "see you around 1:30PM!"
Drove to Estacada. Filled up. Found a bar parking lot. Morning patrons boisterously hailed me as I jacked up the right rear, removed the tire and gingerly yanked the fuel hose off the full tank [ . . . because I do that, I fill the tank to remove the main fuel hose, the better which to take my late-morning bath (idiot - ed)]. Not too sloppy, if I say so myself. The new hose was pre-snaked through the underside over to the left side where I needed to cut it to length and insert it on the filter. There's the vise grips pressed into service at the end of the new hose. I expertly routed the hose just so to the filter and cut it at the correct place. Gas sprayed out over me and all over the ground. See, if the vise grip is at the
end of the hose, and you cut it
upstream, you promote an
uncontrolled fuel spill situation. This I had to tell the bar maid who had just lit up outside the back door.
After that splendid moment of real idiocy, I looked at the old hose. It was the
original hose. No wonder it fought me when I trimmed it and tried to wrestle it onto the filter last night. Pretty damn good 39 year-old hose when you think of how many filter removals and twists it had endured since meeting me.
Got lost again with tristessa's directions. Got pissed at a Honda Prelude, passed it at 60 mph on 224 southbound and had to hook a mean right turn. Cactus de-potted on the way to the floor. Cactus soil exploded all over and in everything. Stopped at Ripplewood Campground of the night before and re-potted the poor cactus with apologies. Honda Prelude pulls in while I am sweeping the carnage out the sliding door. I size up my road tormentor. Decide his life has enough on its plate. Young woman at the counter knew everything about the roads and told me about last night's meander, "you sure did drive around.
"Don't forget, Peavine is 1/4 mile past the power lines, you can't miss it."
Drove across on a more sensible 57 to 42 again.
"Hey, there's Timothy Lake AGAIN." "Hey, there's Wilson Road AGAIN.""Hey I missed Peavine AGAIN." Well, I did. The sun was coming through the driver's window when it wasn't supposed to. Accosted a ranger driving past while I cleaned the filter in preparation for my reclimb of the hill I had just descended.
"Where in GOD'S NAME is PEAVINE??"
"I have no idea, I am new. Do you need help?"
We look at his map. You have no idea, all you who are not named Hambone or tristessa or Gypsie or Mike Boell or Xevin/RustySub or 71whitewesty, the maps are a spaghetti snake pit of numbers and what the heck, throw in elevations! and lakes! and the numbers were not making a whole lot of sense to me or the ranger. The ranger couldn't tell where we were.
"Is that a 4220 sprayed on the pavement there?"
"Why yes, I believe it is."
"Where is it on your map?"
"Why, I can't find it."
Eventually, we discovered that I was way past Peavine AGAIN. Drove up the hill I had just come down, and told myself that I am going back to Hood River if I can't find Peavine this time, come on! I have TWO appointments in a row starting TOMORROW, this interlude has been exhausting!
But no. From THIS direction, there is a sign "Summit Lake 1 Mile." The road, I would have never found in the night. It is a little dirt path leading up a steep hill. Pulled in with a screaming fuel pump. There's the ranger! He had decided to find Peavine and Summit Lake campground and announce to the group that I had been seen wandering the hinterlands with a fuel filter in my hand.
Hambone In His Element:
Xevin/RustySub and tristessa:
Mike Boell's bus showed me for the first time that this color actually looks pretty good when it is waxed. I have never seen a properly cared-for Westy of this color!
Gypsie's Vanagon!
Had my first smores, thanks to tristessa and Mary. They're pretty good!
Sat around the fire and drank beer and scarfed other people's dinners and listened to some excellent Gypsie and Hambone, it indeed had to rain and drip (but no ferns), drank beer and I think Robbie and I shut it down around 2:20AM.
Morning came quickly. Cold. Filter clogged just ahead of Xevin in our 7:00AM cold dash back to civilization. I sent him on his way to Portland and I headed to Hood River. So pretty:
Grabbed a cup of coffee in Hood River and filled the tank and did an Itinerant Air-Cooled day with Ol' Shadow. What was supposed to be a 116 mile round trip turned into a 260 mile tour of the forest. Wouldn't have it any other way.
Will fill you in on Ol' Shadow and 71white westy appointments.
Beautiful. Chilly. Tired. Good People.
Colin
BobD - 78 Bus . . . 112,730 miles
Chloe - 70 bus . . . 217,593 miles
Naranja - 77 Westy . . . 142,970 miles
Pluck - 1973 Squareback . . . . . . 55,600 miles
Alexus - 91 Lexus LS400 . . . 96,675 miles