Homer Bound:
An Account of My Solo Travels to Homer, Alaska in a 1966 VW
Westy Named Clara
September/October, 2009
Page 2 - Oregon Night Drive and Morning in Washington
The climb up the Grayback Pass was slow, and I watched the oil temp rise with alarming rapidity. It was not so much the actual temperature, but the fact that the oil pressure dropped more than I would have liked. Seemed to me that fresh thirty-weight with a healthy addition of Lucas oil should not thin out so quickly, but it did, and I was chugging hard up that hill in third gear with a little less than thirty pounds per square foot. Since this bus has been needing new shocks for awhile, and was bouncy/sway-y even when they were new, the going was slower than usual as well, and it took a good twenty minutes to get to the summit. Once over, the temps cooled down, and I had good opportunity to test out my pulsating brakes. Turn the drums? Maybe someday. At least I’d hauled enough heavy loads up and down big hills in the past to know that having to take my time is no indication of the likelihood of success, so I just relaxed into the groove of the road, and enjoyed taking my comfy Westy out for a little spin.
“Little spin” indeed! It wasn’t so much the distance. Thirty-three hundred miles is just about the distance between oil changes, if you’ve got a relatively clean engine and are using good filters. In the normal course of things, I’ve done several of those in a row without having to do any other maintenance at all, but don’t tell VW, they might void my warranty. The difference I perceived was that where I was heading, and in the time of year I was going there, a little problem could turn into a big one quickly. Besides potential weather problems (I HATE wrenching on the side of the road in icy wind or rain, much less freezing rain or snow!), I was aware that I was heading out of friendly territory. In northern B.C. and beyond, towns and settlements became smaller, fewer, and farther between, parts availability was basically nil, cell-phone service most unlikely, and to top it off, the A.I.R.S. memberships get really scarce up there!
On the other hand, many had traveled this road before me, and most had plans to return, which they did just fine. My route plans were one-way. All I had to do was get myself and the bus to Homer, and I was pretty much done. Besides, the old stories of the famed and dreaded Alcan were mostly written in the days before most (or any) of it was paved. Now ALL of it is, except for short sections of gravel where repairs are underway. The worst thing for me about that gravel was the fact that other vehicles (especially tractor-trailers) would pummel your bus with showers of rocks as they passed going the opposite way. I soon learned to moderate my speed so that I did not meet oncoming traffic during the gravel stretches!
But I get ahead of myself, just a little. There I was in Cave Junction, Oregon, forty-five minutes into the trip, stopped for some additional food supply stocking, and to top up the tank of fuel I was running on. Before long, though, I was heading east on Highway 199 towards Grants Pass, and the short little stretch of Interstate 5 that I was forced by practicality to use in order to access the two-lane blacktop east of Rogue River. Once on the backroads, and with the benefit of cooler nighttime temperatures (not to mention less traffic), I happily wound through the hills toward Highway 97 and my next stop for fuel and coffee, Chemult. After a few hours, I reached Chemult at 10:20 p.m., and found that I needed to add about ½ a quart of oil. Since I was then at ½ a tank of gas, I noted this relationship, and it held true pretty much throughout the voyage. Appalling, I know – I felt bad for the waste, and the cost both to me and the environment. I wasn’t really leaking that much, it seemed, for I could not tell where it was coming from, nor where it was going. In my experience, a significant leak of that nature has a telltale: the oil spatters in the wind, and through the action of wind turbulence, gets thrown back against the rear panels and window of the bus. However, I was not seeing any of this! Having cleaned both engine and transmission as best I could prior to departure, I should have been able to see where the main leak source was, but could not. Therefore, I could only surmise that the engine was eating it. This engine is overdue for a full teardown and bearing refresh anyway, so perhaps I’ll find the cause later: A broken or stuck oil ring perhaps?
Night driving leaves little to see and to write of, so that could also explain the lack of pictures and colorful writing here! There wasn’t too much wind, and my most frequent companions on the road were big rigs. The stars were out, and the terrain I was passing through looked like high desert in the headlights. I pulled a few significant hills, and kept an eye out for foolhardy wildlife, but mostly I just droned on through the desert, thinking nighttime thoughts. Another several hours of this, and I found myself approaching Biggs, OR, where I stopped for gas at 2:51 a.m. As I approached Biggs, from the high ridge, or whatever I was running along, I beheld, laid before me in a coruscating expanse, a thousand-and-one red signal lights. I still don’t know what that was, but it was rather interesting, since I could tell that these blinking patterns of brilliant red lights were spread in array that must have been many miles wide. My belief is that they were located just north of the Washington border, for I saw them again briefly as I topped the steep hill just after the bridge into Washington north of Biggs.
By this time, my goal for the day had been superseded. I set out with the intention that I would attain the northern reaches on 97 in Oregon, somewhere near the Washington border, but since I was over the border, and feeling a little stretched, I thought maybe it was time for some shut-eye. As luck would have it, a particularly inviting wide pullout appeared just over the crest of the big hill just north of the border. Seconds before, I noted a sign indicating that I was now in Yakama Indian land. My priority at this point, 4:13 a.m., was to sleep, and I didn’t really care where I did it, as long as I wasn’t driving, so I pulled off onto the side of the highway in the pullout and experienced the kind of rest one gets when totally exhausted but plagued by the roar of trucks and cars passing by at speed …
Next: Homer Bound Trip Report: Page Three
Gene Cornelius
mizamook@geemail dot com
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