Rachel's Road Trip: The Pacific Northwest

I spent July 21-23 wending my way through Napa Vally’s towns and vineyards, then traveled on to visit the Redwoods on California’s coast. I don’t know if it was their immense size or unfathomable age, but I felt a sense of reverence walking among them and settled into a pleasant routine while there. I’d get up in the chilly morning when I could still see my breath, make enough coffee to fill my travel mug and thermos, hike for several hours among the giant trees, then spend the afternoon in the sun on the Pacific coast. Just before sunset I’d grab my book and thermos of warm coffee and sit on a bench by a grassy field to read, look for elk, and watch the sun go down.

I made noise when I hiked. I could go miles without seeing another human, but something big was definitely using the trails. Whether elk or bear, I didn’t know, but I wasn’t keen to surprise either. As I was coming down from a mountain ridge, in grass so tall I half-expected Humphrey Bogart to pass in the African Queen, I heard an unusual sound, like a creaking door. For a moment I wondered if that’s what elk sound like, then rounded a corner to see a leaning redwood, propped on another redwood which was breaking its fall. While I can’t say whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound if no one’s there to hear it, if I’m in that forest, there is the distinct sound of running.

On Saturday, July 26, I headed northeast toward Crater Lake National Park, surprised I couldn’t pump my own gas in Oregon, but pleased over the striking improvement in roadside coffee. On the way, I came across a car wash fundraiser, and gladly supported the Grants Pass High School cheerleaders to perform in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade after they cheerfully scrubbed 20-states-worth of bugs off my windshield.

I’d learned of Crater Lake through Ken Burns’ 12-hour National Park documentary, which I had to stop watching 4-hours in so I wouldn’t keep adding parks to my itinerary. The crater was formed by a volcanic eruption over 7000 years ago, and filled with precipitation over time. The water looks so pristine and undisturbed I was surprised to learn people can swim in it - and of course I had to. I got up early on July 27, and hiked into the crater wearing several warm layers to ward off the chill. I talked two strangers into getting in with me, and they assured me they'd let a park ranger know if my cold muscles seized up and I sank like a rock. It was exhilarating! The reunion with my fleece and pants was, too.

I dried off and got on the road, bound for Portland. A few days earlier I’d been feeling pleasantly surprised over how smoothly my logistics were going. Soon after, I realized I’d told my Portland friends I was coming in August instead of July. With just 2 days warning, they graciously took me in, encouraging me to use their washer and carving out fridge space for my perishables. They even whipped out a stack of maps and brochures to help plan my Portland sightseeing, and looked up pictures of bear poo so I’d be better able to recognize it in future.

On Tuesday, July 29, I headed on to Seattle, grabbed a coffee, and started exploring. I came across a disorienting statue of Vladimir Lenin, found a huge stone troll (?!), and received an extra slice of pie at a bakery when the staff saw my struggle to decide between “key lime” and “s’more.” On Wednesday, after a post-pie run, I took a fascinating tour of underground Seattle, learning how the city was razed by fire, then raised by city planners during its rebuilding.

On Thursday, July 31, I headed east toward Glacier National Park in Montana, double-checking the locations of Washington’s wildfires as I planned my route. One of Glacier’s most famous hikes is the Highline Trail, which follows the Continental Divide along a mountain ledge, past waterfalls, over snow, and through fields of wildflowers. I parked the Subaru at the trailhead, put a dry erase board in the window noting the trail I was on and time I’d be back, tied a bandana over my ears for warmth, and set off. About a mile into the hike, I came face-to-face with a large white mountain goat along a narrow path, and quickly backtracked to where I could get up a slope and out of its way. I averted my gaze and spoke calmly in a monotone as he passed. I hadn’t read specific strategies for goats, but figured neither of those could hurt. I later learned that a hiker had encountered a bear along that ledge a few days before, and was thankful I just got a goat.

The night before I left Glacier I found out that a friend I served with in the Peace Corps, and his wife whom I also met in Turkmenistan, were visiting family just miles from where I was camping. We caught up over breakfast on August 3, and they invited me back to their family’s home for a shower, sending me on my way with some freshly picked Montana huckleberries. Cleaner, and very grateful, I headed on toward Yellowstone.

I’d always wondered if it’s obvious when you get a flat tire. It was. I pulled off onto the berm, neatly stacked my camping gear along the side of the highway, dug out the spare tire, and - having exhausted all of the steps I knew - consulted the Subaru's owner's manual. Following its clear instructions, I methodically repositioned the car so all 4 tires were on flat asphalt, engaged the emergency brake, assembled the jack, figured out where to put it based on the diagram, and loosened the bolts. Though I was feeling good about how smoothly I was moving through the manual, when a car stopped and a couple got out asking if I needed help, I gladly accepted. We finished changing the tire together, and then I repacked the car and wrestled the punctured tire into the back on top of my camping gear. I then read the remaining instructions, and dutifully wrestled the tire again, moving it to a spot where it would be less likely to kill me in the event of a sudden stop.

I got back on the road with the hazards on, careful not to exceed 50mph, and eventually reached the next town where I called some repair shops, concluded that none would be open on a Sunday evening in rural Montana, and checked into a hotel. When I got to the auto repair shop the next day, they had the tire fixed and me back on the road within 30 minutes, no charge. Well rested, freshly showered, and stuffed with continental breakfast, I set off again for Yellowstone. Current mile count: 7800.