Astoria, and the end of our westbound odyssey! I went ahead and set up our campground on the Washington shore, just across the bridge from Oregon,

then returned to await Russ’s arrival at the Columbia River Maritime Museum, on the Riverwalk in Astoria. Of course, I let everyone know that he was arriving. I even approached one of the two Coast Guard cutters that were docked there, and asked the seaman on watch if they might blow their horn when Russ came in. He said that he would need to contact his commanding officer, but returned a couple of minutes later to say that they could do that. 

Russ had texted ahead to let me know when he was getting close, so by the time he came in sight, there were people all up and down the riverwalk that were clapping and cheering, and a good-sized crowd outside the museum. And as soon as they saw him, the Coast Guard horns went off! Russ was delighted, especially when many people came over to shake his hand, congratulate him, and ask about his trip. Even some of the Coast Guard crewmen came down to the dock to talk to him! (And let me tell you, these Coast Guard seamen were serious dudes! This particular ship was known along the west coast all the way down to Central America for its success in intercepting drugs.)

Russ celebrated with a “wee drop” of Redbreast, his favorite Irish whiskey, and then we walked into town for a nice dinner. 

A fine end to the Trans-America Bike Route!

I really thought Russ would beat me to the campsite—he was already three + hours on the road when I left the RV park in Lincoln City, and I stopped at two wildlife areas along the way (without much sighting of wildlife). But it was when I decided to take the Three Capes scenic route (only an extra four minutes, according to Apple Maps) that I really got delayed. Halfway around the loop, I came across emergency crews dealing with a downed power line. I had to backtrack eight miles or so, then take the inland road to Tillamook.

As it was, I had just set up camp in the dreary, featureless RV park when Russ pulled in. I was primed for a seafood dinner—last night I was so tired out by my fruitless search for a camping site in Olympic National Park that I gave up hopes of dinner out, and ordered a pizza delivery. So I told Russ to hurry up his shower, and we headed back into town to the Old Oregon Smokehouse, an unassuming, counter service fish and chips place that I’d been assured was THE place for seafood in Tillamook. It did not disappoint. We both had the most delicious, fresh prawns and fries, and had a great conversation with the cook afterwards (they were about to close). He even gave us free samples of their famous clam chowder, and I can tell you, that fame is well deserved!

After that, it was time for the highlight of any trip to Tillamook:

The Tillamook Creamery!

You can tour their facilities, where they make cheese, ice cream, and other dairy products, but we headed straight for the ice cream stand. It took a little convincing to make the young woman at the counter understand that Russ wanted TWO three-scoop dishes of Oregon Black Cherry ice cream (because they wouldn’t just sell him a half gallon container), but we finally got our orders and went outside to enjoy (yes, I got some too).

Like I say, enjoy what the day hands you!

I had no idea it would be so hard to find a place to stay on the Oregon coast. Luckily, the day I left McKenzie, I got a call from an RV park in Lincoln City—they had just had a cancellation, and had one spot open. It was a bit south of where I planned to meet Russ, but it would get me through the weekend. In fact, it was a very nice RV park, with an ocean view, and close to a public beach access, which we immediately took advantage of.

I gotta say, driving to the Oregon coast is NOTHING like driving to the Jersey shore! You have no idea you are getting near the shore until, suddenly, there it is! The mountains and forests go right to the ocean.

The next morning, there were free bagels and donuts in the main building (they even had a spa with a hot tub!). There, I met a very nice lady who told me I should visit the beach that morning, as they were having an unusually low tide. The beach is known for its tidepools, and for its abundance of agates, which can be found at low tide. So I gathered up the doggies and off we went!

There were lots of people looking for agates. I found a small, nearly all white one, and gave it to a little girl who was way more excited about it than I was. Moe doesn’t like the water much, but he LOVED running on the beach!

And then it was off to meet Russ in Tillamook, for his last leg to Astoria and the end of his western trip.

The transition from dry central Oregon to the coastal rainforests is pretty abrupt:

You climb over a mountain, and BAM! everything is covered in moss! I lucked out again, and got one of the first-come, first-served sites at McKenzie Bridge Campground, in the Willamette National Forest. The campground is primitive, but lovely—right on the McKenzie River.

Russ met me there, and that night at dinner, we met the owner of one of the many rafting companies in the area. We’d enjoyed our first rafting trip in Colorado so much that we signed up on the spot for a three-hour rafting trip down the McKenzie the next day.

No pictures, because my iphone… But we had a blast! Our guide came up with lots of nifty maneuvers to make the rapids more fun, and I was introduced to a new river ’tradition’—making lots of noise every time you go under a bridge. He also pointed out some of the quirky things people along the river do—like the guy who ties cold beers to a rope suspended over the river for rafters and kayakers to snag as they go by. Shoutout to Oregon Whitewater Adventures and our guide ’Tater’ for a great time!

Leaving McKenzie, we were reminded again of how devastating western wildfires can be. In 2020, the Holiday Farm fire, started when high winds downed power lines, burned over 173,000 acres and destroyed the town of Blue Lake.

The date should have warned me. Today was a day of getting lost, and found, and getting lost again.  In the morning, I took the dogs for a hike up the mountain, through mixed evergreen forest. Every firest has its own distinctive smell: this one has a woody, warm, caramel scent, with just a slight resin-y tang. We’ve not yet hit the coastal rainforests, and these woods are open, with many small, flowery meadows. One trail joined another, and another, and then another. I took to marking my turns with arrows made of broken sticks. Still, when I headed back, I managed to miss one turn and walked quite a distance until I realized my mistake and backtracked to the right trail. Relieved, I set off—and missed another turn. By now, it was nearly three hours on the trail, and I was getting tired and annoyed. In the nick of time, I found the last turn and my campsite.

After lunch, I decided that I really should go see the Painted Hills, back in Mitchell. My camp neighbors assured me that there was a much quicker way there following one of the gravel forest roads, and although they were a bit sketchy on directions, I figured I could find it without too much trouble. That was my first mistake.  My second mistake was trying to find my way without any cell service. After THREE HOURS of wrong turns, including a few miles on a closed road and a very confusing detour, I finally found my way back to Mitchell, and tired, grumpy, thirsty, and hungry, I decided to have dinner at the same restaurant where Russ had eaten the night before. Thank goodness they had an outside dining area, and were very dog friendly, as the boys were with me. I also filled the car with gas, which I was worried about. 

After dinner, in a somewhat better mood, I decided not to waste all that driving, and set out to see the painted hills as the sun was setting.  That, at least, was worth all the bother. See for yourself. 

However, I was not about to chance a repeat of the afternoon, so I drove back to camp the way I’d originally come: 38 miles west of Mitchell, then 16 miles back toward Mitchell on the only paved road to Walton Lake. 

Hopefully, I will have an easier time driving to my next campsite at McKenzie Bridge!

On a blistering hot day, we left Clyde Holliday—Russ hoping to make it to Mitchell and the legendary Spok’n Bike Hostel, and me hoping to find a spot at Lake Walton in the Ochoco National Forest. Along the way, I made a stop at the John Day Fossil Beds and Thomas Condon Paleontology Center, just outside of Dayville. 

The drive, through Picture Gorge and over Sheep Rock summit, was so amazing that I nearly forgot the heat. At the center I took a short hike to an overlook above the center to stretch our legs, then put the dogs in the camper with the vent open and the windows closed against the heat (it was still cool from the AC we’d been running up until our departure). Even so, I could barely get through the exhibits before people were reporting dogs “dangerously overheating” outside. They were barking, as per usual, but otherwise fine. I went back out through the gauntlet of disapproving stares and got back on the road. 

I should say that the exhibits were very interesting, and divided into the major paleontological eras in which fossils have been found. Most of central Oregon is rich in fossils—the three separate areas of the John Day Fossil Beds only cover a tiny segment. You could watch paleontologists at work at the Condon Center, though having worked in archaeology, I knew there was only so long you wanted to watch someone painstakingly chipping away at a rock matrix with dental picks and tooth brushes. 

Leaving the fossil beds, the heat just slammed down, and I quickly abandoned my idea of stopping at the Painted Rocks area and hiking in to get pictures. Instead, I headed to Walton Lake, hoping the Subaru wouldn’t overheat and that I could get a site there. Indeed, none of the reservable sites were available; I was aiming for one of the non-reservable sites. 

The first camp area looked crowded, so I headed around the lake to the sites on the far side. And there, close to the toilets, was the perfect, shaded site! I quickly backed up the camper, leveled it, opened the windows to air it out, then unhitched the car to drive back to the fee station and pay for two nights.  Success!!

Well, not quite.  On my return, I saw the ‘Reserved’ tag I’d somehow missed the first time around. So I had to undo everything and set off in search again. Fortunately, I found an open site just three places down.  Not as much shade, but…. I set up camp, put out my site tag (which has the wrong site # on it) and decided I’d let the rangers figure it out.

And then it was time for lunch. Now all I have to do is wait half an hour until it’s safe   to take a dip in the lake (do parents still do that?)—the first body of water I’ve found out west that isn’t pure, icy snow melt. 

Whew, it’s hot! Hope Russ is OK. No cell service here. 

P.S.: the lake was fabulous!

Heading down from Brownlee Campground to the Brownlee Dam, the landscape quickly turned from forest to desert. The reservoir behind Brownlee Dam looked so out of place in this dry landscape, like someone had dumped a bucket of water at the base of an anthill. Across the Oxbow Dam, and I was in the high desert of Oregon. Up Hell’s Canyon, I felt sorry for Russ, who would ride that route the next day in 103 degree heat.

Then, suddenly the landscape changed again, and I climbed into the Wallowa-Whitman National Forest and over the three Blue Mountain peaks Russ would have to conquer. Down the other side, and back into dry land, although this time the entire valley floor was heavily irrigated for farmland. Strange to see a lush green field on one side of the road and dry sagebrush on the other. 

I was happy to find plenty of available campsites at Clyde Holliday State Park, along the John Day River just west of the town of John Day. I was surprised to find the park was beautifully landscaped and shaded, with well-spaced sites equipped with water and electric hookups. It had very much the look of a suburban recreational park (which is half of the park), but it also has this very nice campground. The only drawback? CLOUDS OF FIERCE, BLOOD HUNGRY MOSQUITOS. Ugh. My camper’s screens are not that great—one of my least favorite features of the T@b—and I was finally forced to close all the windows and keep the AC running almost all the time in order to keep the interior liveable.

But the campground had a more pleasant surprise for me. The first evening, just before dark, I saw a scurrying movement out my camper window. There, on the gravel path beside my camper, was a covey of California Quail, those comic little birds with the comma-shaped feathers sprouting out of their heads. I had my binoculars and was out of that camper before you could say SQUEEE! There were four adults (which I got to watch taking dust baths) and at least 14 downy baby chicks, scurrying around after tasty bits. I did think 14 was an awfully big brood, so I looked it up—while California Quail can have even larger broods, those youngsters were probably from more than one nest, gathered together in a crèche looked over by multiple adults. California Quail females have even been known to lay eggs in other females’ nests. 

On Sunday, I headed back into John Day to see the Kam Wah Chung State Heritage Site, a busy Chinese general store, herbal apothecary, and community center in its day. The nearly hour-long tours are free, but limited to eight people at a time. Inside is a treasure trove of artifacts from the 1940s and earlier.

Kam Wah Chung has been translated variously as “Golden Flower of Prosperity” or “Golden Chinese Outpost”—the latter is currently accepted as most accurate. The small stone building was originally constructed in 1865 as a military fort, but was leased by Lung On and Ing (‘Doc’) Hay in 1887, and it quickly became the center of a bustling Chinatown. Lung On was a savvy businessman, and Ing Hay, despite never learning to speak or write English, became respected as a healer well beyond the Chinese community. So when the Chinese population dwindled after the gold boom ended, both men stayed. Lung On left the building and business to Ing Hay when he died. Years later, Ing Hay left to receive medical treatment in Portland, locked the building and left his nephew instructions to watch over it. He never returned. Thus, the interior stayed almost untouched until the property was sold to the town and later turned into a museum. Their whole story is one of success and respect gained against all the odds, in a time when anti-Chinese sentiment ran strong.

The Chinese apothecary left by Ing Hay is fascinating. It is the largest collection of Chinese herbal medicine in the United States, and it has been completely cataloged by the Oregon College of Oriental Medicine. Those archives, complete with Ing Hay’s handwritten prescriptions and a listing of all of the raw ingredients found at the site, can be seen in the Kam Wah Chung Medical Archive at www.kwc.ocom.edu. 

The elderly greeter, a retired forest ranger, even showed me some of the artifacts found by residents and give to him over the years, including miniscule single-dose medicine bottles, intricately decorated perfume and snuff bottles, and even an unusual bronzed and carved small gourd, a good luck charm.

WHITEBIRD to Brownlee Campground, down 95 along the Salmon and Little Salmon Rivers. Oh, that Salmon River Valley! Steep hillsides swoop down on either side, their evergreen-crowned summits giving way to open, wildflower paved lower slopes. Sometimes the hills swoop across, only to knuckle under and end abruptly in a ribbed knob, like the paws of some gigantic beast. 

In Council I found a really well stocked grocery, where I replenished my dwindling supplies. The road turns slightly west from there, leaving the river valley and running through a broad valley, then up into drier, broadly hilly terrain. The last few miles toward Brownlee follow state route 71, a twisty, winding road that descends toward the Brownlee Dam. The campground lies a few miles above the dam, along a small creek under towering ponderosa pines, with their deeply etched bark. I am nearly alone at the campground, as the holiday weekend is over.

However, that isolation included no cell service, and I needed to let Russ know where I was. At the recommendation of the camp rangers, I headed back the way I’d come. Before I found a cell signal, I passed a wildlife management area and decided to take a look. The dirt road passes through open grazing land, up to some spectacular views of the mountains to the north. But no cell signal.

So back to the main road. I had to drive 13 miles back the way I’d come to get a message out to Russ. Hoping he would get it, I returned to camp, and took the boys for a short walk before dinner. There is no sound here but the birds and the creek. Perfect!

The next day, despite some drizzle, I set out on a trail that led up through forested slopes to open meadows. Wildflowers in every hue carpeted the margins of the trail, and grew in profusion across the open meadows.

The rain stopped just before I decided to turn back, where I promptly took the wrong road. Fortunately, the road I chose led back to the camp, but much closer to the main road. Along the way I passed the burial site of a small girl who had perished on her family’s journey along the Oregon Trail.  Nothing but the blackened stump of a huge ponderosa pine (and the park sign) remains to mark the spot.

Back at camp, the day had turned sultry, and the pups and I settled in for a nice nap, to await the cool of the evening. A quick supper, some reading, and then bed.

Next morning was bright and sunny, so I set out again up the trail, to photograph the profusion of wildflowers in a better light.

I discovered the biggest puffball mushroom I’ve ever seen—this thing was the size of a soccer ball! I also discovered there was about a 50-yard stretch of trail where I could get messages. To my relief, Russ was fine, and heading my way.

I may have gotten over-enthusiastic in the bright sunshine: At yesterday’s turnaround, I decided to head further up the mountain, and while the scenery was great, I over-extended myself and poor old Scooby, who had to be carried in my backpack for a while. When my back gave out, we all took a breather in the shade.

It was a struggle to get back to camp and to Russ, who must have arrived half an hour after I set out on my hike. I was so hot that I simply marched past him, shedding clothes along the way, until I reached the creek and waded straight in (did I mention there was no one else in the whole campground at that point?). Freezing cold water never felt so good! I was glad I’d thought to put my spare water jug in the creek—it too was nice and cold.

The drive from Powell Campground to Whitebird was about the most scenic stretch I’ve seen yet. First of all, it descends 70 miles along the Lochsa, Clearwater and Salmon Rivers.

Can you see why thoughts of multi-day rafting trips came to mind?

It didn’t even start to level out until about mile 50. After Kooskia it started rising and falling again, through drier, rumpled landscapes. Went through the Nez Perce Reservation and dropped down near the White Bird Battlefield, site of a skirmish between Nez Perce and U.S. cavalry that began a disastrous war for the tribe.

And then it rose again, through beautiful high farmland.

I found a spot at an RV camp right on the Salmon River in Whitebird. Russ arrived a couple of hours later, and we hit the Wildside Steakhouse and Saloon, for the best loaded baked potatoes we’d ever had (this IS idaho, after all). Wandering around camp the next day, I found the flowers that I’d seen carpeting hillsides all around the area: a species of vetch, it’s often planted as a cover crop to restore soils, and it has spread widely.

Salmon River beside our camp.

Monday the Fourth of July threatened rain, so we stayed an extra day and spent the holiday here. I was apprehensive about spending the Fourth at an RV park, but it turned out that most of the people at the park were avoiding loud fireworks displays, not looking to create them, and we met another couple close to our ages who were biking the Trans America, but from west to east. As I finish this blog, Russ is happily sharing his last two beers with the husband and chattering away about bike esoterica. Happy Boy!

My next stop will be on the Oregon border—the last state on our westbound journey.

Finally made it to Hamilton, MT and a warm welcome from Jeff’s friend Mark Engbrecht and his partner LaDonna Felton. Hamilton sits between the Bitterroot and Sapphire ranges, and is the greenest place I’ve seen since Missouri (maple trees!).

I got there none too soon—coming down from Chief Joseph Pass, I heard my brakes scraping. Made the first appointment I could get for the local brake repair shop, and, as I expected, both front brakes needed replacing. LaDonna and I quickly felt like old friends, as she joined me for some needed shopping. 

Then Russ’s iPhone started having problems. Knowing we would be in wilderness areas through Idaho and eastern Oregon, he decided it was time to replace it. I’ll let him describe the nightmare we went through at the Missoula AT&T store, but suffice it to say that’s the first time he’s ever been denied a new iPhone because his MA license came up invalid. 

Once that was straightened out, we headed into Missoula while his new phone was loading up to stop at a local bike shop (to pick up gear and some bike gooodies)

and to visit the headquarters of Adventure Cycling Association, the organization that created the Trans-America Route that Russ is riding (and many others: they have bike routes for every region of the US, and for every level of biking ability. They even have supported tours.). They gave us a full tour of the building, with its many bicycles both modern and antique, and Russ got his ice cream (the real reason we stopped by). He even got his picture taken for their ‘wall of fame’. We saw Theo Gabriel’s picture, too! He and some friends are riding the same route as Russ, but in reverse. Two Ashfielders, riding across the Unted States at the same time. We must have crossed paths somewhere near Breckinridge, CO, but missed seeing him. 

After that, we stopped at Five on Black for about the most delicious lunch I’ve ever had. They serve Brazilian Rice Bowls, which I’d never heard of, but which sounded good, so we went on the recommendation of our salesman at the bike shop. Kind of works like Chipotle’s: you choose your base, meat, sauces and sides to create your own combination. I chose rice and greens as a base, with roasted chicken in a spicy coconut sauce, and coconut roasted sweet potatoes on the side, topped with tomato vinaigrette and cilantro. YUM!!!!

Back at AT&T, there was more bad news: almost none of Russ’s apps had downloaded. At that point, he started to panick because he needs the riding apps for his maps, bike maintenance records, etc. It was a perfect storm of the kind of stresses his TBI brain can’t handle. The bored, dismissive salesperson was no help, either mumbling instructions that neither of us heard clearly, or manipulating the phone so quickly that we couldn’t follow. I finally dragged Russ and the phone out of there with a promise to return tomorrow if things were not fixed by then (they let him keep his old phone, just in case).  Back at Mark’s house, the download still seemed to be frozen. It was Mark who finally asked if we’d tried turning it off and rebooting it. You would think the guy at AT&T might have suggested that, but I guess he couldn’t be bothered. 

Russ was relieved that we would not have to stay another day and drive into the busy city of Missoula (another thing he hates), and I was relieved not to have Russ in one of his meltdowns. 

The next day I stopped at the local home and ranch store (western version of home and garden) to get my propane tank topped off, not knowing it was ½ price day.  While I waited in line, I struck up a conversation with the guy ahead of me about the Jan. 6 investigations (fools rush in). He was of the Democrats are destroying America camp. Somehow, the discussion turned quickly to religion, and that was when I found out that I am not a Christian, and am most definitely going to hell, because I don’t believe that the Bible is the inerrant word of God, written by God. Who knew?  Later, some guy driving by in a pickup truck yelled “Go home!” First blatantly negative interaction I’ve had (mind you, I’ve gotten some stink eye for my “End Gun Violence” shirt.) The very nice man who topped off my propane apologized for the a$$hole in the truck, and said people are getting grumpy about the growth in population in Montana (darn newcomers!). Whatever. 

Back into beautiful Idaho! Green and cool, and smelling of cedar! Sure am glad I got those brakes fixed, because there were some gnarly switchbacks coming down from Lolo Pass.

I’m at the Powell Campground, part of Clearwater National Park, right on the Lochsa (pronounced Lock-saw). In the river canyon there is no cell service whatsoever, so I headed up to Lochsa Lodge, hoping they might have wifi, as Russ needed to know where I was. 

And that was the second nasty interaction of this whole trip. I sat at the bar, thinking I’d get a soda, log onto the internet, and be gone.  I actually thought the guy was kidding when he said the wifi was for guests of the lodge only. After that, things went rapidly downhill (he was serious, and not nice about it, either). I promptly walked outside, hailed the first passerby, and got the wifi password from her (yay for women of a certain age—we don’t take shit from anyone). Then I found out the password is printed on the bar menu. So what was all that nastiness for? Meh. 

Took the boys out for a short hike on part of the Lewis and Clark trail, and met two young men struggling to mountain bike the same narrow, overgrown, winding trail. I caught up with them where the trail crossed a steep rocky hill. They had given up at that point, acknowledging that it was beyond their abilities. Can’t blame them: I nearly pitched right down that hill myself. 

On the second day at Powell I headed off to hike a trail my neighbors in camp recommended: about a mile and a half, up to some hot springs (“There might be nude people,” they warned me.). I doubt the dogs or I will be offended. Russ should catch up today: I’ll leave a note on the camper for him, as I’m taking the car. 

Didn’t find the trail. I found a dirt road, and took that. Parked the Subaru about a mile in, and walked from there, up a dirt road in perfect condition along narrow creeks tumbling down the mountains, under giant old cedar trees. The forest primeval. Clearly, people had camped here; I found several old fire rings. Back at camp, I checked my maps: it was a forest road, open to anyone, and it went on for miles. 

Russ arrived right after I’d gotten back from my hike. Met a nice couple near my campsite; she was from Westfield, Mass. originally. Later, she gave me a copy of a recent Smithsonian Magazine with an article about Bob Leverett, who had discovered old-growth forests in the Berkshires. Russ and I enjoyed that. I wish I could have stayed longer; it was so peaceful, and the hiking opportunities were endless. I ‘m already thinking of a multi-day rafting trip in the area. But time and through cyclists wait for no one, so it’s off to Whitebird, ID.