DENNIS WOOD

Picnic lunch on the beach near Lahaina

Molokai from Maui

Maui, Day 5

“The Road to Hana,” or “The most beautiful drive in Hawaii” or “The road to hell, and ‘maybe’ back...” Whatever you want to call it, it’s nearly legendary. This is 50 miles of road, including 657 hairpin turns, nearly 50 one lane bridges, and enough blind alley turns, and single lane stretches to raise your hair, plus a requisite number of heavy duty trucks, road machines, recalcitrant locals, and a few tourists who shouldn’t even be driving a car (and a few other pedestrian tourists who consider standing in the middle of the road to take pictures a privilege which motorists must yield to). It climbs like crazy over ridges of Mt Haleakala, then drops like a rock right back to nearly sea level.

We start off in the rain. As our narrator on the travel CD tells us, “if it’s not raining as you listen to this, it will be soon...” (At over 200" of rain per year in Hana, and much much more up higher, there’s rain coming down somewhere most all the time!) This creates a tropical rainforest, gossamer waterfalls, and mud. Flowers are everywhere, as is nearly every kind of fruit you can imagine, most of it growing wild. The bark of “rainbow eucalyptus” is a multi-color enchantment, and the leaves of huge philodendrons scale up over-large trees. Orchids bloom along the roadside, and whenever you get close enough, you hear the surf. This is the north and northeast side of the island, the “windward” side, the “wet side,” —that 10,000 foot mountain combs all the moisture out of the humid trade winds, and it comes pouring down the shoulders of the mighty one, “the place of the sun,” as the local word means. Some of the vistas are enormous: the road snakes up the sides of cliffs at an almost unprecedented grade, and at the top, you see more than 180-degrees of ocean.

Hana itself is a smallish town—once more historic and larger, but still revered by Hawaiians. We drive past to a huge waterfall, and just beyond where the road is closed because of a rock fall years ago; perhaps never to be re-opened. In any case, this area is REMOTE! The road just gets narrower and narrower. There are a few houses scattered along the road: it’s hard to imagine just how anybody manages to live so far away from anything: any possible work, shopping, food, etc. We come back and eat at a lovely park in Hana Bay, then travel back to Ke’nai, one of the two last truly Hawaiian villages on Maui, where Taro is still grown. Visitors are strongly encouraged to respect the privacy of these Hawaiians. We see Taro paddies glistening in the sun, but really can’t get much closer to the small houses or farms. However, we encounter a lava-strewn bay where the waves are crashing. The colors are pretty dramatic: black sand, black lava, emerald green and chartreuse plants, far off red cliffs, and everywhere else the most intense turquoise sea, in this case breaking wildly over the black lava, sending plumes of white surf into the air.

But the day is extremely tiring. Carveth and I trade off driving, but it’s daunting. 4 hours each way, and if you stop anywhere, even longer. We do stop for fresh banana bread—excellent; plus some hand made palm leaf bowls which local crafstmen turn out readily. They are quite beautiful, really. Supposed to be durable.

Maui, Day 4

Three of us take a free snorkeling lesson in the condo pool. (I didn’t—too many memories of difficult times to want to do it again). Afterwards we head off for Lahaina again. We stop at a roadside park for lunch, this one directly on the ocean. Dark blue ocean, distant Lanai, gentle waves, palm trees, canopy trees of oak or ??, red soil—it’s right off the postcard. The cars whizzing by add nothing to the ambience, but oh well.

Lahaina holds two destinations for us today. One is the trial or “demo” of the Segway which the operator promised us yesterday. “Two for one,” preceded by a regular “promo” lecture of how great the new electric car company was that this particular fellow had started up. (Most of it frankly unbelievable). He stood on a Segway while he pontificated: coming forward, going back, moving side to side. I was much more impressed by the machine than by him. Finally he quit talking and we were able to try out the much fabled machine. A real blast. It’s hard to ride it without feeling a big grin coming onto your face. Minus a small collision at the end, I thought I did pretty well.... If they didn’t cost so blasted much, it would definitely be great to own one.

Then off to the harbor to find “America II” (the winner-but-one of the America’s Cup in 1989). It’s a 60 foot speed yacht, extensively modified to carry tourists—that’s us—but still a pretty racy boat. Alas, it’s the quietest day (wind wise) of any since we’ve been here, and we have to motor out at least 40 minutes before we hit the “wind channel.” So, boring, boring, boring. Nothing quite like being on a sailing ship with the diesel providing all forward motion. But then we get to the wind, and the seas open up, and it’s pretty sublime. Waves crashing all around, big ones sending spray over the bow, tilted at a wild 45-degree angle. While I wouldn’t want to cross the Pacific on one, I could definitely ride a few more hours. Soon enough we have to turn around, though, and then it’s boring, boring, boring again. Worth it, though for the experience of sailing in the deep blue sea. (Plenty of lake sailing exposure, but it’s very different).

Maui: the road to Hana in three views

Maui, day 3

Day three:

Our “Lahaina” day. This is an historic old town strung along the most western part of the island, facing the other islands of Lanai and Molokai. Both of these latter islands are much smaller , and very lightly settled. A single volcano rises up in the middle of each, and looking across at them, we see no visible sign of human occupation—though it does exist. I’d like to travel across to Molokai, but a ferry ride is 2 hours, $89 each person each way, and word is, “very rough” on the return trip.

We drive up around the bend and over onto the northern edge of the smaller volcano. The trip takes us past unbelievably posh resorts, hotels, and golf courses, scattered with some multi-million dollar beach homes which overlook a stretch of ocean of the deepest blue imaginable, and then another island jutting upward into clouds. It’s pretty heady stuff. Also pretty unimaginable what it must take to own one of these homes set into such lavish landscaping that it beggars your belief.

Pretty soon the road tapers, narrows, and becomes crowded for two lanes. A lot of switchbacks, and some VERY steep sections lead you into wetter and wetter conditions. One can see what tropical forest looks like. We exit out onto high cliffs, covered with spring-green grass, wildflowers, lava fields, rock cairns (and even a maze), the combination of which is unusual. It feels almost like a visit to Easter Island, but strangely, the feeling is of “spring in the midwest.” Both Carveth (our traveling companion) and myself immediately commented: “It feels like, and smells just like, spring back in the midwest.” A very powerful, almost nostalgic feeling. Of course, nothing back there really looks much like those thousands of miles of blue ocean. We’re looking for the apocryphal “blow hole,” which is not marked, and which hundreds if not thousands of tourists drive a long ways to see, but miss. Well, we did, too. But we were treated to a section of island that feels completely different than what we’d seen so far.

On the way back, we stick to the coast: it leads us through small towns, all “marred” if you will, by the presence of high rise luxury and effete golf courses. In one place, we stop to view the “largest Buddha outside of Japan,”----this is a joke, since it’s smaller by far than the sitting Buddha up on our hillside near Aguanga. But the small Buddhist retreat is pleasant. Right nearby is a Japanese cemetery. The stones are higgly-piggly scattered around barren sand. Reminds you, I suppose, what this whole area would look like before landscaping. Different, but not nearly as nice.

Lahaina is obviously the epicenter of one sort of Maui lifestyle: the tourist shopper. It’s an old place with narrow streets, impossible parking, and throngs of folks strolling up and down the sidewalks. A cruise ship is offshore, it’s hordes being ferried back and forth in small craft. Sailboats are everywhere, but strangely, despite the stiff offshore wind, not one is to be seen with sails up. They do motor around. We eat lunch in a fish-house, this one open air, balcony style, right over the water, and with a stiff wind blowing through, which mostly tames the wild humidity. We order Oh-no, and Poa—both local fish, both excellent. Coconut shrimp accompany each order, the best I’ve ever tasted. Another “win” in the Maui food experience. We’ve found that food is almost unconscionably expensive, but also better than most food we get back home.

We have time to waste before our show at 6 p.m. Unfortunately, the gals decide that clothes shopping fills the bill. Yawn! After a bit we go to see the big banyan tree. “The largest Banyan tree in the U.S.” Well, I didn’t expect much, but it IS huge. It has 16 full-sized trunks stretching to the ground over an area almost the size of a city block. A whole park is nestled under it’s expansive arch. We’ve seen some big trees: this one is bigger than big.

Right across the street is a “toy store.” This one specializes in “toys” for rent, the kind of thing us guys would go for: exotic sports cars, Harley-Davidson motorcycles (to rent one of these beauties, you have to leave a deposit of a cool $1000, plus pay $99 for 3 hours). But also Segways! For $20 you can get a “demo” ride of 20 minutes. Both Carveth and myself step right up to the line. “Where else?” we ask ourselves. But the proprietor tells us we’ve arrived too late; we’re to come back tomorrow, and to compensate us for our delay, he’ll give us a “two for one” experience. The man in front of us has just returned his rental Harley. In moments, the owner of the shop discovers that the man has pocketed his key. He jumps onto his Segway and heads out after him—rolling down the sidewalk at a pretty nifty clip.

The show is “Ulalena,” meaning reddish yellow rain—the soft rain falling at sunset in Maui. It’s set in a theater reminiscent of what Cirque-du-Soleil has, and the who has some common features with that famous venue: excellent sound effects, dramatic lighting. It’s a cultural enactment of Hawaiian legend. The drummers drum, the dancers dance, the lights are mesmerizing, the overall effect very powerful. We’re sitting up high very near the balcony where the musicians play from. They are a young crew, and quite gifted. They smile at each other, and when they catch us watching them, they smile and nod at us as well. Their instruments are very sort of percussive drum, often played powerfully, as well as strange flutes, big and small ones, and some of them played through a nostril! Well, go figure!

After the show, we ask the nearest musician whether he ever grows tired of it. He says, “no, after 8 years, it just gets better and better!” They learn the music, and the more they know it, the more possible it is to just get into the performers and the whole experience, he says. The other percussionist is a veritable one man symphony—as much fun to watch as the actual show: racing, dancing, kneeling, stroking, banging, almost prayerfully drumming.

Though much of the symbolism is lost to us, we know a little bit of the legend from the Luau of last evening, and it is beautiful, as well as bitter-sweet: us Europeans have virtually destroyed it, just like very other culture we touched.

I have to note that Maui is uncommonly beautiful and so diverse as to beggar your imagination: we’ve seen winter, summer, and spring in the small course of two days, and been at sea level and mountain heights, dryness and tropical rainforest, beautiful flowers, dead sand, incredible red-black lava flows, turquoise and deep blue oceans. The greenest grass, reddest rock, and strangest flowers anywhere. But it’s also the big “tourist destination” par excellence—it could be a big amusement park, for all the planned activities they design for you. And they drain your money away from you with almost astonishing rapidity.

The Enchanted Floral Garden features more than 9000 species of tropical flowers plants, and we're not only amazed, but enchanted. Here the Dutchman's pipe has got the award for the strangest 6" flower anywhere. I don't know the orange ones name. The unique silvery plant below is the endangered "Silver Sword" which grows nowhere else than the frigid top of Mt Haleakala (Hah-lee-AH-ka-la). It grows slowly for 50 or more years, then shoots up a 6" dramatic flower stalk, then dies.

MAUI....day 2

sunrise, Haleakala volcano --->

Day 2:

Maui stretches from sea level to just above 10,000—atop Mt. Halakeala. We’ve heard sunrises are spectacular from up there, but it means getting up at 3:30, leaving the condo by 4:15 and driving some 50 miles to the top of a very cold place. Oh well. The ride is supposedly one of the steepest roads “anywhere,” (so says a placard)—whether true or not, it’s replete with switchbacks and goes on “forever,” while we labor to the top. We can see the sky lightening in the west. At the top, it’s out of the car, and the wind hits us full force. The temps might not be so bad otherwise, but the combination is frigid. But the view is all that was promised: you look down on the clouds, which are puffy cumulous things, eventually to be lighted from beneath by the fiery orb of the sun, at about 6:15. The changing lighting is spell-binding, never mind your face and fingers are stiff from the cold. The ocean is everywhere, “way down there,” and the valley between the volcanoes stretches with green cane fields. Lights from the small cities dot the landscape.

People clear out quickly once the deed is done—it’s just too cold. We’re told snow frequently falls up there. There is a group of observatory domes, mostly run by the Air Force to detect some 8,000 objects floated into space by us earthlings. There are also “silver sword” plants—unique to this mountain, and once an endangered species. Truly silver, they are enormously slow growing: after 50 or more years, they shoot up a flower sprout some 6 feet tall, then die. The caldera of the volcano is redundant with oranges, browns, and blacks, heightened by the sudden light of the sun. You can see “the big Island” from up there, as well as Molokai and Lanai, and some smaller islands dotted around.

After a few hours, we head back down. The new-fangled transmission on our semi-SUV just isn’t up to engine braking our descent, so it’s a bunch of braked corners. After we get almost all the way down, we find a private botanical garden featuring blossoming plants. It doesn’t impress us the first 25 feet or so into the gate, but after that, we’re all fairly amazed by the lushness and diversity of what we see. It’s dense, there are mosquitoes, and strange birds calling out. But all of this fades in light of flowers, flowers, flowers, some so unusual and amazing that we’ve never seen, nor can scarcely imagine them. Whole trees crested with splendid reds, oranges, yellows. Our cameras are never still—I don’t even bother to turn it off between shots. Between it and the sunrise, I’ve taken 244 pictures.

Finally, it’s back down to the condo for a quick reprieve and then a short trip dead south, to the tip of the road. It turns from a beautifully lush, landscaped, pristine real-estate section (with the most gorgeous golf courses and golf-course-homes you’ve ever imagined), to a single lane which must alternate between cars going both directions. Soon you’re in “lava” country where lava flowed down Haleakala some 200 years ago. It’s the “a’a” variety of lava: all foamy, rough and jagged. It would be impossible to traverse. The bay at the end is all high wind, waves, and aquamarine water with whitecaps. Kind of wild, really.

On the way back we stop at “Big Beach,” the longest undeveloped sandy beach in Maui. It has its fair share of cars parked, plus people lounging, playing in the surf, walking the sand, or having picnics. We under-estimate a wave almost from the beginning and are soaked. Nevermind: we’ll just take off our shoes and enjoy it. The water seems crystal clear, but there are no stones, few shells even, just brown sand, steeply canted into the surf.

Then we finished up a too-busy day with a classical “Luau” at the tropical plantation. It’s an obviously big production set up to serve hundreds. We’re in the “in between” season right now, and so tourism is at its lightest. Nevertheless, even right now, between 4000-5000 tourists fly in each day! (To an island with roughly 110,000 population). The plantation is a lush thing, set on the shoulder of the smaller volcano. A tram tour shows you all sorts of wondrous plants that can only grow in a tropical climate: avocados, mangoes, guavas, pineapple, macadamia nuts, ginger, blue ginger, and tangerines. Strangely, oranges, grapefruits, and lemons (which thrive in California) aren’t big numbers here. In between all the edibles are gorgeous flowers. The tram returns us to a grassy field; by now the sun is setting. The “Hawaiians” are demonstrating some of the games villagers used to play, and then we gather around to hear a narration and enactment of some of the original legends of the origin of the islands. Poetic at times, and even though very touristy, still rather moving, as the “Hawaiians” (really Polynesians way back “when”) had, at times, a very idyllic life, though in the latter centuries, inter-island warfare took its toll.

The dinner is pretty darned good. Much, much better than the luau we had in Kauai years ago. There are still a few strange things: purple sweet potatoes, and “poi” that snotty textured stuff made out of taro roots. Even that tasted better than we remembered (but anything would!) The pig cooked 6 hours underground was tasty with different spices, and there was a salad made our of “mountain ferns,” which was so unusual I had to have a bunch more. But, of course, we all ate way, way too much, and our stomachs groaned as we started the after-dinner show.

These young dancers are not only handsome (or pretty), but incredibly facile. If I could move any part of my body as rapidly as they did, undoubtedly I’d be a happier (and much younger) man! Lots of powerful drumming, good singing, and throughout it all, a sense that the performers were really enjoying themselves. They not only smiled at us, but at each other. The grand finale was a Samoan fire dancer, who led us out to the lawn where he performed his magic with fire-lit batons. Whew. The narrator, a smooth, deep-voiced Hawaiian, managed to give a strange sense of dignity and honor to the rich tradition. I have the feeling that this is a growing urgency amongst native Hawaiians—to preserve a culture that well deserves it.

Maui Day 1_2

"The Iao Needle"--->

Maui... day 1

If I thought the big time change would change my sleeping habits, the answer is “not much.” I’m still awake and playing solitaire in the middle of the night, but in this case, my sleeping hours stretch out over a full 12 hours. Just three hours shifted can really set your system amiss.

The condo puts on a concierge talk about the island in general, things to see and do, and of course, a full menu of “big activities” for which you can pay huge bucks. Of 20 or so mentioned, we find three or four “can’t miss” ones we have to do. The concierge has a “system” set up: she can reserve for about anything, tell you something about each, print vouchers for each, and sit with you at your table and explain the way to each venue, the cost, the “rules,” what to expect, even where to park. Way to go!

Then it’s off to IAO valley park. It’s a winding road going up to a notch valley in the side of Pu’u Kukui, the “second” volcano of Maui. It’s 5708 feet tall and receives more than 400" of rain per year! As soon as we turn off the road, you can tell we’re entering a different world—rainier, more precipitous, greener, rushing stream at the bottom; the IAO needle dominates the right hand view: a slender spire some 2500' high, it is surreal.

On the way down, we stop at the Bailey House museum—filled with pre-white-man Hawaiian artifacts. Quite a life they had, but not a peaceful one. As noted, the Polynesian settlers originally were quite content and peaceful, but as their prosperity grew, and their numbers increased, the leaders coveted the land, the money, food, and prestige of neighboring tribes and made war in order to increase their own holdings. The museum “ain’t that much,” but is pleasant enough, and it has huge—really huge “canopy” style—trees which turn out to be loaded with mangoes, some of which fall off and split open on the ground: what a great waste!

Then off to Kahului (KA-hu-luey), main town, and through it, down the coast a bit to see Paia, the “hippy” village of the island. Some surfers are gathered around, not doing much. On the way back, we pull into an organic health food store, offering a “hot deli” bar—all vegan stuff, and quite a variety; all of it quite excellent! Sun setting, beautiful clouds over Haleakala, and darker ones back the other way. A delightful breeze blowing off the ocean at our condo.

MAUI

Getting there AIN'T "half the fun...."

We get up before daybreak and drive to San Diego. It’s cold out, dark, but the traffic never ceases on the big freeways. The airplane is full. The trip is a long 5 hours. We exit the plane and it feels like we’ve walked into a wall of water! After living in the desert for months, this air is, well, pretty wet! Thank heavens, there’s a breeze. And the scent of flowers in most places. No doubt about being in the tropics, none at all.

We're here because our traveling companions, Luella and Carveth Kramer, have so kindly invited us to share in their timeshare in Kihei (KEE hay).

We get our car. This is an unpleasant experience, all around. The price we think we’re getting of course is nowhere near what it’s really going to cost. And if we wanted to insure ourselves, it’d cost 50% more again. What a giant rip off! The car is pretty good, though, a mini-SUV which comfortably holds us and mountains of luggage.

We drive to our condo. It’s 20+ minutes. Maui is two volcanoes, a smaller one west, much larger one east, and where the two shoulders have abutted, lies the central “neck” or valley. This is now towns, or farms, sugar cane fields, ranches. Very green, low-lying, and somewhat hot. Perhaps high 80's during the summer, only about 5 degrees cooler in the “winter.” We land in Kahalui (KA hah LOO eee) which is on the north shore of this neck, but our condo is on the southern shore. Just below our location is one of the two "prime" sites for multi-million dollar homes.

We can’t check in for hours, so set about for lunch. It’s “Big Daddy’s” barbecue. We expect food prices to be high; this one isn’t too bad, really, and the food is just great. I get a watercress salad with my pulled pork, cornbread, and mac-and-cheese, and it’s memorable. Some sort of Asian dressing really sets it apart.

Then it’s into the grocery for staples for our condo kitchen. Again, rather shocking after our usual experience at the big discount grocer back home.

When the wind stops blowing, it can get pretty steamy. With the offshore breeze, the "tropical" flavor comes through strong and fast. Nights don't cool off much.

Aguanga, California

OTGAB (on the road again, briefly) has ended. We're back in our "home base," Aguanga. After being along the coast for virtually two months, where it's COOL, where the sounds of the ocean are never far away, where distant vistas are almost always over ocean whitecaps, and where beaches stretched away, amazingly pristine and lonely, it's a rude awakening to find oneself in the heat, dryness and hills again.

Fortunately, for us, we missed the dismal heat wave that afflicted summer residents here, with temps above 106 for most of a week. Aguanga brought out its best for us, and we've had mid-80's only for the last two days. Actually, much nicer than you'd think, and cool enough at night for sheets and blankets.

The good parts are there, too: we have good water pressure! Good electric power, and it's beautifully quiet here---more so that at any other place of the whole trip. That new scooter is finally out of the rig.....forever....and now I only have to repair the damage it did in transit.

We were greeted by the latest picture of Jevne, our delightful grand-daughter, who's now 6 months and a charmer, as you can see above.

Plus more orders for Jokers and Pegs games, so I'm spending hours in the shop using every available scrap of wood to put a dent in my back orders, and Pat is in the rig painting lots and lots of pegs. My last order of 3000 pegs is nearly obliterated. Seems impossible. I only have a few weeks to build up another supply before two weeks will be enjoyed with friends and a trip to Maui.

So, of to the salt mines.

OTGAB 6, Life in the Coastal Zone

Two weeks in Port Orford...the town where the major budget income appears to be issuing traffic tickets. One week, for a town of 1200 folks, there were 7 arrests. A fellow told me that I was in dire danger if I drove my new (to me) scooter (without license) on the city streets....so I guess I'll have to quit. Word is, you'll get nailed for even one excess mph.

But, surprisingly, the food is good. Two potlucks at this campground, and both were star class. A single RV'er fellow next to us is the best cook: one time a smashing chili, and the other, a memorable mango salsa. In town, "The Crazy Norwegian" serves winning fish 'n chips (Sunset magazine says the 2nd best of 10 in the western U.S.), and just down the road, Grant's cafe serves up killer omelets (the best we've ever had, and some of the largest).

We've had an adequate social life, as well. Cards played 2-3 times per week, and a willingness to learn new games (not so common!), several trips with other folks, including a trip down to Brookings to take in their free Sunday afternoon concert.Both of these we've seen have been excellent...one a Celtic trio, and another a ukulele band---strange, but quite melodious. The latter had kids and adults up in front dancing and doing acrobatics! On both occasions at the concert,it's been followed up by a communal "party hour" at a fellow Jojobian's place---with some 11-12 couples of us from Jojoba Hills joining in. It's a small world, after all.

Brookings, we learned, has the unusual distinction of being only one of two towns in the U.S. ever bombed by the Japanese in WW2.(Check it out! I'd never HEARD of such a thing...) The town communicated with the bomber pilot after the war, and they became "fast friends," (so the book says).

Port Orford is a good "staging area" for side trips. I'll name a few. Three are actually right in town. "The Heads" is a name given to a 3-podded peninsula jutting west from the downtown area, and rising to perhaps 800 feet elevation over the ocean. A Coast Guard station occupied the top and one of the pods, once upon a time, but no longer. Now beautiful trails lead out to incredible ocean vistas, and on a lucky day you can see (and hear) grey whales surfacing, or look down, WAY down, and see seals and sea lions cavorting and feeding. The nice thing, it's been sunny and perfect temperatures, so hiking is just right. Great wild flowers, too.

Or you can drive down "Paradise Point" road to a small parking area, then a steep decline down to the beach, and walk on some of the most pristine beach we've ever seen anywhere. On our day, there wasn't another soul anywhere on the very wide strip of black sand, which is pitched rather steeply down to the rolling aqaumarine breakers. I'm told that agate collectors go hunting, but they must dig up the beach between the low and the super-low tide lines.

Battle Rock is a park right in town, as well, with beach walks just adjacent. This rock became "infamous" because of a battle between land-hungry whites against the Indian tribe which had occupied the area for "a thousand years," (according to the plaque). Our treatment of the tribe was lamentable, at best.

Just up the coast is the Cape Blanco state park. Another headland, atop two-hundred foot cliffs, with a famous lighthouse looking out over endless ocean. The wind howls here, even on a nice summer day, and we're told that the winter storms can be so severe that stones, driftwood and spray will easily top the 70 foot lighthouse, plus 200 foot cliffs, and sometimes break its windows. In fact, during the winter "in the old days," they had to string rope between the various buildings, to avoid being swept over the cliffs and into the sea. And kids were able to attend school only in the summer! Life was interesting, no doubt, but must not have been terrible---as one lighthouse keeper stayed there for 42 years, and at least one of his sons became a famous lighthouse keeper in his own stead. Still, even for us, on a short visit, it was hard to see living in that constant gale. The life-saving service (precursor to the Coast Guard) gave it's lighthouse keepers housing, salt pork, sugar, salt, and flour. Everything else they had to raise on their own. The light was important for more than 100 years, now is run only for historical appeasement (for us lighthouse lovers, I guess)....as GPS, radar, and a general decrement of coast shipping has erased most all need for them.

Nearby was an Irish immigrant's farm (The Hughes). This hard-working couple settled in the river valley (very close to the mouth of the river and the ocean), in a somewhat sheltered place, and built a two story home, and 2,000 acres of fertile dairy-raising land, with 20 employees. Their cheese and dairy products were carried to the beach, run down the beach to Port Orford, put aboard coastal freighters and carried to San Francisco markets. We visit such old houses with some caution...but this one was delightful. Warm and inviting, with great "hosts" (RV'ers who workamp and guide 3 days per week), and a huge amount of history.

Another trip up to Brandon (maybe 50-60 miles) showed us a small town with a fair amount of life, and a great place to hunt for rocks. (Along the Coquille River). Rock hunting is something many RV'ers around here enjoy: they have sophisticated rock tumblers and the glassy-smooth stones that come out are quite lovely. On our first outing, we found petrified wood, and one large
agate---which was such a find that I had plenty of people asking me "do you REALLY want that rock?"

On the way back, we dribbled into a lumber yard which sold some of the indigenous lumbers: redwood, cedar (which here is really a variety of cyprus), and myrtle, which is "the" hardwood most popular in these parts. I bought enough cedar and myrtle to make a set of two of Jokers and Pegs---though neither wood really turns me on much.

Yesterday we traveled south....to Gold Beach, which is another fairly "busy" small town (as compared to Port Orford.....slowwwwwww), and from there took a pretty spectacular road up the Rogue River to a tiny town called "Agness." Many of you will have taken the more famous route up this river----the "Jet Boats," which have a famous following. (We'll hopefully do that later.) The road is narrow, twisting, and "barreled" (green tunnel under trees). 36 miles, and a very slow 36 miles at that. I constantly thought that my driver-side mirror would be hit by another such from an oncoming truck...the road was scarcely wide enough for two of us. At times it would come out on a cliff above the river....hard for me to estimate heights, but 150-200 foot cliffs seem about right. The edge of the road comes "right to" the top of the cliff, and then it's ooh,ahhh,oooh, all the way down to the water. But when you finally cross the bridge, and start back toward Agness, then the road REALLY gets interesting. A true one-laner, but two-way road, with blind curves, and steep precipices and you "never know" what's just around the corner. Fortunately, the mail boats seem to have the day.....not much traffic, and what we saw was more likely to be a "four wheeler" ATV than a car.

Agness is, well, tiny. Scattered about under the trees, for the life of me, I could see no reason for its existence, except perhaps for a feeding place at noon for the mail boat crowd. There is a general store....with a platform out front where some of the old locals seem to gather, with a stray dog or two, as laid back and comfortable-seeming as a Currier-and-Ives. And an interesting runway for planes that cuts right across "Main Street" ---if that's what it is. But, beautiful. Really. Serene. I don't know whether it's far enough inland that it escapes the dreary winter fogs.

We wanted to see a state park of "old growth" forest...it was right on our way.
We stopped at the road leading up into it. It had one of those signs indicating
steep hill) usually you see these on interstates, a tuck headed down a hill).
This "hill" though had the truck almost vertical! And the first section of road
looked the part, too. Pat went back to see a smaller sign....it said, "due to
winter storms, the road is closed." Good thing... it didn't look like anything
I wanted to drive a truck, or any vehicle, up, anyway.

Today we had one of those strange things happen. Pat and I decided to play tennis. Since taking up Pickleball at Jojoba Hills, we've played very little tennis and we REALLY SUCK. The tennis courts in town aren't much better than our playing, either. But we set up, smacked a few balls, and then lo-and-behold, another couple came, and brought out their racquets.....PICKLE BALL racquets! We both stopped and shouted, "PICKLE BALL!" Which attracted their attention, believe you me. They weren't expecting us, and neither us them. But soon enough 8 other pickle-ballers showed up (now the chance of that happening seems close to zero), and one couple had extra racquets. They asked us how much we'd played, and we said, "oh, three times a week for a couple of hours"---and they ooh'ed and ah'ed at that. But of course, they were young(er) and quite athletic, and we certainly didn't win all our games! Two of 'em were kids, maybe 10 and 17, and wow, could they hit that silly yellow wiffle-ball! One of the guys called us "ringers."

Turns out this group of folks are part of a larger group of maybe 20 full-time couples (meaning live here year 'round) who have found their niche in an even tinier town just north (Langlois) and who do everything together....pickleball being the thing they do on windless days in summer. Wind surfing, skiing, bicycling, you name it, they have something going on most of the time. (I can't imagine being a teenager in these places, though....)

It's the right mix of "outings" plus "down days," and the weather has (we're told) been especially nice....no wind for a week. The other night we heard rain droplets on our roof. The last time that happened must have been about 8 months ago! I'm trying to get my head around what "coastal living" might be like. For one thing, houses are hugely expensive...they lose nothing to their California cousins! But, unlike their southern counterparts, they are not "show pieces" (egregiously ostentatious)---clearly not designed specifically to show the rest of the world just how wealthy their owners are. And people don't drive cars to do that, either. So, that part, at least, gets a thumbs up. I have a definite feeling that many of the folks hereabouts are ex-Californians, tired of the population, traffic, and the keeping-up-with-the-Joneses which reigns supreme down there.

OTGAB 5, reposting..... August 5, Port Orford, Oregon

Got up late today. No particular reason to be so tired, since yesterday was not a hard travel day, only slightly more than 100 miles. But I was "up tight" about the pass we had to go over—which, as always, turns out not to be as difficult as I imagined it would be—and this is always fatiguing. It's a 10 mile section of the Highway 101, which starts at sea level, and rises to about 1500 feet, then plunges right back down again just as fast. In the truck only, it's no big deal, though you have to be careful. Pulling a rig, I was concerned about the long tow up, with 7% grades (the maximum allowed on interstate highways) for 2 miles, and 6% for two miles...which is a lot of grade. Plus you can never really build any speed, because it's twisty curvy, and sometimes rough, too. As you get halfway up, the whole scene gets covered with dense fog, adding to the pleasure. At the very top you went your way through huge coastal redwoods, so it is a beautiful drive, too. (Not when you're pulling, though). After you twist and curve awhile at the top, you start down, and then really down. You are now restricted to only one lane, with a wall just on your right, and curves marked 30 mph, plus dropping at the same old 7%—which means you have to be on your toes. But, it went smoothly. Just a little braking, the engine kept me under control. And then we came into Crescent City.

Just today I heard from another RV'er friend, though, who had a much worse experience on this same stretch. It was hot (quite unusual, but would make things MUCH more difficult engine and transmission wise). He had a much heavier rig, and he got caught in construction and so had to stop-and-start the whole way up and down again. Now THAT would be a terror.

Anyway, crossing over into Oregon, you come out onto a broad coastal "shelf," with rich, verdant farms (the Easter Lily capital of the world, they proclaim), which fields on either side lined with rich, dark green lily plants, some of them blooming. Word is, most of these bulbs (which require three separate plantings over as many years) will go to Japan and China. Now, that's a change. Wonder what they do with them all? Eat them?

But this easy going doesn't last for long. You start coming into "spurs" of mountains which just off from the longitudinal "coastal range" (which goes up and down the whole coast, just inland, and which drains all moisture from the coastal airs, leaving the leeside of these mountains as desert). These spurs come right down to the ocean, so no choice but to go up and over them. They've done a pretty good job of building a good highway, but it's still a low of slow up's and sometimes a bit too "fast" downs. But Oregon didn't have the dense fog, and seems sunnier, by and large. Whether ‘tis true all the time, I don't know, but so far, we've not had any in this campground, and where we were last, it was persistent. Anyway, the classic "Oregon Coast" picture should come to mind. You're on a roadway, atop the huge bluffs/hills/mountains (whatever you want to call them), with 1000 foot plunges down to the ocean, and views stretching, no doubt, a hundred miles or more out to sea, as well as up and down the coast. Out in the water are these immense rocks—you could call them spires, or even islands, often topped by green growth, even trees. The waves crash into them incessantly, of course. The whole scene is actually so well known, that I believe you could show somebody a postcard of the Oregon coast, unidentified, and he'd immediately cry out "Oregon!"

The towns in northern California are few and far between, but at least there are a "few" decent sized ones (Eureka being the largest, at about 30,000) and Crescent City the last of the halfway decent sized ones. But in Oregon, nothing is very big at all: we're talking 1000-1500 folks, usually, and about 25-30 miles from each other. The phone book for this place is 1/3 as thick as Fayette's used to be. I can't imagine, really, living in a place this small: wonder where you get your car fixed? Or see a dentist, optometrist, or worse yet, a doctor if one is needed. I do think we saw a sign for some sort of hospital in Brookings, about 45 miles south of here.

Port Orford used to have a Coast Guard rescue station here: one of those dramatic things at the bottom of a huge cliff, at the foot of a multi-podded peninsula jutting out from the town. It had rails leading from a boathouse, down into the crashing surf. But, this has gone. Now the big station is at Brookings. I guess the advent of helicopters means that immediate help via boat isn't as pressing as it once was. So, some "history" around here—though none of it much older than the turn of the last century. We'll go exploring, and perhaps I can say more, later.

People around here fish—of course, the salmon "run" every summer, and are a big draw—and of course, fresh salmon can't be beat to eat, either. But the campgrounds have "fish cleaning stations," and of course, a campground runs a freezer for folks to store both their bait and their catchings. So far, though, nobody has offered us any free fish. The other thing, besides sight-seeing they do, is hunt for agates on the beach, this being the "agate" capital of the world (or the U.S.?) Anyway, lot of agates. To get the best ones—since they are so picked over—one has to watch the tide table, and not only go out on low tide, but even at a "minus tide," which means the water is below the usual low tide mark, even, and thereby revealing stretches of sand which are much less picked over. Even then, they take a small shovel and dig, hard, for the little semi-precious jewels. The other thing they offer is a shed where people can plug in their "rock tumblers," (an old term. The old ones just turned and turned for weeks on end, polishing rocks; nowadays, they shake, rattle and roll, and the stones are polished in three separate steps in as little as 3 days). Our neighbor has a whole picnic table filled with agates, and is the proud owner of a new rock "shaker," (about $200 with supplies of various grits) and even brought her latest "catch" over for viewing this morning. She told us we should go rock hunting...and said we should view the tide table, but stay away from the next one! (Because she wanted less competition!). Her husband tells us he's limited her to "300 pounds" of rocks. Our other neighbor rolled his eyes and said, "I just can't IMAGINE a hobby any less well suited for RV'ers!" I told Pat that any rock collecting we'd do (it actually sounds kinda fun, since I like pretty rocks) will have to start AFTER we get back to Jojoba Hills. Sorry, no agates.

We also learned that strolling the beach around here can be a punishing experience. The persistent wind (from the north, at about 30 mph) whips down the beach, unimpeded, and blows sand in your eyes and face and can be very tough. While we noticed a wind on the California beaches (the same phenomenon, really; the summer sun heats the air inland, which rises, creative a relative vacuum, so that the colder air from over the ocean comes rushing inland to fill the void), it didn't seem so intrusive, nor irritating. This reminds me of Kansas or something: it's just incessant and wearing. But, thanks to the inrush of cold air, the temps rarely vary much from about the mid-60's, apparently either day or night. (However, sometimes the wind must stop and the temps soar—because people do speak of some extremely hot days, rarely.) I can't say much about humidity—it must be there, but it doesn't really feel so. It scarcely ever rains in the summer time, but everything seems lushly green, so either mists, or ?? keeps it so. (Though I understand it has rained a fair amount this summer, the "wettest we ever remember.")

Our campground is about 50 sites, about 3 rows, tightly packed, almost all back-ins, and some of them, like this one, a real bear to get into (because the common building is just in across the road, there is virtually no maneuvering room). Once in, we are with a few feet of our neighbor's car, and just a few feet from our own truck on the other side. A narrow concrete pad supports a picnic table—but it's hard imagining when it might be warm enough to enjoy it.

The campground also has a "rec" room—doubling as the only indoor community gathering spot. It has about 6 tables, a pool table permanently pushed up against a wall (hence unusable; I can't tell you how many rec rooms in campground across the country have invested in pool tables which are unusable by anybody!), a small kitchen counter area, a tiny microwave, and that's about it. At our Mexican potluck last night the food was tremendously good and plentiful, but the noise level rose to the painful in this tiny hard-walled room. As somebody (also from Jojoba) mentioned, "it makes you realize how really, really nice we have it back home." To speak to the person across the table from yourself, you had to literally shout, and of course, this was a vicious cycle making the noise level even worse, etc. After eating the good meal, I just had to clear out—I didn't think I could take any more.

Anyway, there is also a "heated gazebo," which is a much smaller structure with a permanently open door, overlooking the "slough" (pronounced "slew,")...a marshy area with reeds and grasses, down a bluff from the room. It's pleasant enough. The potable water is so expensive in Port Orford, so the campground owner says, that washing cars is done via a separate system, with rather "tea colored" water sucked up from this marsh. No matter, it works well enough. Just beyond this room, which also contains our mail boxes, to one of which our name is already affixed (a nice touch; makes us feel welcome; God knows how much mail we'll actually get), lies a coffee room, where folks gather in the morning for free coffee and rolls. Neither are exactly on "my menu," too bad. But, it's one of the ways in which this little dinky campground make people feel welcome.

The other is the owners, on-site managers, who greet you, knew us by name just as we pulled into the place. A young couple with kids, they really want you to be happy. The daily rate is $27, but you can stay a month for slightly more than $300—go figure that one out. All I can compute is that they really don't want daily campers, really encourage long-termers. There is a whole row of obviously permanent RV's or park-models, and we understand these are more-or-less permanently occupied by the usual local folks who need/want a cheap place to live. I'm not sure just how much they mix with the transient crowd. One old fellow, who is pretty hard up physical-wise, does mix with the group, and is much loved by everybody. He's up every morning to make the coffee—if anything happened to him people would know it immediately!

After I finally got myself up this morning, we had breakfast of some good bread we bought at a bakery in Crescent City—they do have a few good things, there—and then I worked on Sudoku. Sadly, I'm sort of addicted to the damn things, but they make me tear my hair out in frustration, particularly the hard ones which all hinge upon some obscure logical clue which will reveal a single number, thereby opening it up to solution for all.

We debated a bit about whether we should start out our cycle of exploration: one of the good things about a new place, is a whole menu of available directions and places to explore. This list gradually disappears the longer we are here, so the "freedom" feeling of a new place is something best just in the first few days. But, in this case, we both said, "nah, not today."

I thought it'd be an easy day—but as in all such expectations, I was wrong. I planned to take a nap, but got side-tracked into more Sudoku. Then read a bit, then got restless and got up and washed the rig's windows. Then talked to my neighbor about satellites, then washed the truck (even waxed part of it), and then fixed lunch (at 3 p.m.!), then tended to emails, then, then, then. Anyway, no nap, which is just as well, and no idle time, either, which is also good. Just that a restful day turns out to be one packed with "things." I never understood why a clean truck seems to run better—but it has ever seemed so. (You know the feeling).

I'm trying to make a mental comparison between northern California and southern Oregon. By rights, they should be similar, because pretty close and ruled by the same topography, surely similar climate. But they do not feel very similar to me. California seems quiet, slow, misty, mysterious, even, with fogs which intermittently roll through, streams, mountains and enormous sea cliffs. While I can't say those same things don't apply here, they are here in a different ratio, or different configuration, or something which avoids ready explanation. So far, I prefer California. Come to think of it, one of the very large (possibly THE key) difference is the huge trees which dominate the landscape down there, and which are mostly absent up here. Those trees "shade" everything (no pun really intended)—by which I mean, create a pervasive ambience which rules even the spaces where they aren't. (Just close to).

I do continue to believe, however, that the only real way to get a feeling about a place is to BE there for awhile—and probably one season, one month, won't even touch it. But, it's a sure sight to do a better job than just driving through.

One friend mentioned driving along the 101 at Crescent City during a winter storm, and seeing the waves wash over the highway and tip over semi's. So, that would be a very different experience! We heard, that during the winter storms here in this campground, the wind blows from a different direction and can be just terrific. We watched a special on high-def TV about a high-end resort near Vancouver, constructed right on the very rocks over the ocean, (not even that far up), with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the prime attraction being for people to come and watch the waves during winter storms. Well, that I'd love to see, but I think I'd be uncomfortable: as I said, the windows weren't THAT far up the rocks—and a rogue wave.... Well, I don't know.

Crescent City, I think I have it correctly, is the only lower 48 place to have suffered a tsunami, back in 1964. The same year, and not far removed, was the date of the warm 12 inches of rain which feel in a single day, melting the snow pack of the coastal range, and washing such huge trees and debris down the flooding rivers, that bridges were wiped away, along with several small Indian towns (Klamath among them). What a year that must have been. If you were inclined, I believe you'd wonder whether God might be preparing you for the end.

Well, enough about the extended version of OTGAB. This is enough more informative, and OTGAB 5 was otherwise so terse, that I'll probably go back and post this, offering people (who aren't really all that interested) the option to "delete immediately."

Anyway, Pat is over her shingles, just a few little discolorations remaining, nothing really—never was. And I'm "traveling well," just my usual complaints of back and neck pains, and occasionally nagging "men's prostate symptoms" (more than you wanted to know, but just in case you were thinking we have it pretty easy). I sleep rottenly—but usually enjoy my middle-of-the-night solitaire games. If I'm in the right frame of mind, don't have to travel the next day, and have no pressing need to rise early, I can actually feel rather comfortable laying on my side in a warm bed, playing solitaire, and never really caring just when I might feel ready to fall asleep again.

Far better the solitaire than the worry cycle which would fill the space otherwise. No end of things to think about—global things like climate, pollution, political intrigue, over-population, species extinction, rotten politicians (oh, did I say that?), and the dearth of halfway decent medical care at anything other than break-back prices. I notice, now, however, that there is rising general acclaim for the notion that the nation's medical care is "broken." It used to be that if anybody said that, they were labeled arch-liberal or Communist! ("We have the best medical system in the world...") However, I hear that sentiment much less...almost never anymore...and a whole lot of grousing that the system needs major overhaul. Now there is an ad on TV from some sort of California coalition, saying that one half of all bankruptcies are due to medical expenses. We're all living at the end of a delicate thread....may as well enjoy it while we can, and while still able to be somewhat pain free and not terribly knee deep in debt.

"Jojoba Hills" Escapees' Resort, Aguanga, California


We are finally located in our leasehold at this Escapees' park in southern California. (Click on the above link to see their website, if interested). There are roughly 280 RV sites at this park, though in the summer, the residency is perhaps about 100 persons, not 500 or so as in "the season" (winter). We had a very hot, somewhat difficult "pull" over from Chama, NM. Crossing the Colorado River at 7:00 a.m., near Needles, California, it was already 100 degrees. It didn't get much cooler along our way here.

The first two days were piping hot, but the subsequent 7 have been delightful. The routine appears to be a morning fog, slight breeze, and very coolish feeling temperatures. Eventually the sun burns the fog (from the ocean?) off, and the temperatures climb rapidly. Unlike the desert southwest, southern California does not enjoy (suffer?) the summer monsoon season. One of the saving graces has been a very cool north wind which adds much comfort even when the temperatures get high. Though, in the last week, we've been only in the mid-80's. This is definitely superior to what most of the rest of the country has these days, so we're told.

As the sun descends in the evening, the temperatures drop quickly, and by 8 p.m. we must don sweaters to sit outside. Now, if this would only persist, I could report uniform optimism for summer weather here. (I don't think it will, though).

The folks have been friendly, but the whole routine of "settling into place" for the next 10 months or so has been both expensive and hectic. The park layout/topography virtually requires you own a golf cart (the modus transportation for everybody in these steep hills). And the storage shed has to be equipped with some tools which I need for my ongoing Jokers and Pegs' business. Hopefully, the initial assault of outflow will be abated somewhat by not having to spend those huge sums for fuel in moving about. I also had to get adjusted to a new wood shop area----not as well equipped as the deluxe one at our last resort----and accomodate new personalities encountered there. All of this requires some adjustment! We're already entertaining friends from Gold Canyon, so there have been precious few spare moments.

The onus of travel is lightened, mostly a good feeling, but there are other considerations which take up the slack.

More as we go along....