Homer Bound:
An Account of My Solo Travels to Homer, Alaska in a 1966 VW
Westy Named Clara
September/October, 2009
Page 3 - Through Washington State, and into British
Columbia
Just imagine … I overslept. Well, not too bad, as it was really only about five hours of non-sleep that I had had, but it was definitely time to hit the road. As I was warming the engine, a concerned officer of the law stopped to inquire as to my state of being, or, more accurately, that of my vehicle. I assured him all was well, then turned out onto the highway, heading north. Before I left, however, I did finally find cause to unlimber the still camera, and snapped a couple nondescript shots of a nondescript area. I had a fresh tank full of fuel, and not-so-fresh cup of gas station joe (bleah!), and drove for about an hour-and-a-half until I reached a convenient rest stop high atop a hill north of Yakima. There, I rested, let the engine cool a bit since it had gotten hot from the run up the hill, and added a bit of Lucas oil.
The terrain was still high desert, with sage, rolling hills of faded amber grass, and scrubby trees. Occasional geologic features presented themselves, and there was an aged, time-worn look to the area, as though once there were mighty mountains here, but had been ground down through the ages into these stunted, severe hills and what I took to be basaltic outcroppings. Amidst all this, human population made its mark with ranches and farmland; here and there small communities dotted the landscape.
Somehow I ascended AND descended into the canyon road through a part of Wenatchee National Forest, which was now becoming more of the type of country I like to drive through … a different view around each corner, a tantalizing glimpse of great stone formations through the trees, the land interspersed with small streams. Shortly after, I visited the waterfront town of Lake Chelan, with its circuitous streets lending interest to the otherwise slow-moving traffic.
By 1:15 I had reached and refueled in Entiat, a tiny town on the western shore of Lake ???. (Note: I now realize my big mistake – here I was thinking that this was a big lake I was driving by, and it turned out to be the Columbia River!) This was an alternate route – indeed, Entiat lay on Alt. 97, which I had needed to take because of a closed bridge after Wenatchee on 97 proper. I’m probably glad that I was forced to such a detour, as it was likely more scenic than the main highway. But who will ever know? Eventually I rejoined Highway 97, and continued through semiarid and irrigated lands northward.
In Tomasket, one sign caught my eye as I entered town: “Tomasket Natural Foods – Free WiFi.” Perfect. I could stop and make contact with Michele and friends, and perhaps get a bite of something green. When I was in the store, I asked about whether the Canadian Border folk permit apples and pears through, and was given cause to fear for my cargo of organic fuji apples and freshly-ripening pears from home. By the time I got to Oroville, Washington, just six miles from the border, I had worked myself into a frenzy of paranoia. Not really. But I was concerned. I didn’t want no trubble, Ossifer! At the station where I filled my NATO can with expensive gas, as well as my main tank, I noted the presence of perfectly good apples in the trash can. I met a chap who was friendly enough to point me in the right direction to find the info I needed to help make a safe and uneventful border crossing: The local grocery store. They have lists posted in their produce department specifying what is and is not allowed into Canada. We finished talking about Volkswagens, and I went to the grocery store where I found out that I was carrying forbidden fruit! Outside, in the parking lot, I had downed the biggest and best pear I’ve ever eaten, and was working on an apple, when some guy came by and gleefully accepted my offer of the remainder of my apples and pears. He was kind enough to offer me a nice bottle of amber ale in return, so somewhat mollified, I made sure I had all my papers in order and continued up the road to the border.
After all the hullabaloo about people getting a hard time crossing into Canada, I found the process quite painless. They asked me about all sorts of contraband, whether I had any weapons, pets, liquor, trouble with the law, etc., and probed my reasons for wanting to enter their country. I took the online admonitions against making wisecracks of any kind to heart, and simply told them I was a drug smuggler on the lam, and that I was importing homegrown pears, high explosives, automatic weapons and Humboldt Hash while seeking to dodge the draft because I didn’t want to go to ‘Nam. And those aren’t dead bodies of enemy gangsters up there on the roof, either. Just kidding. I was actually very boring, and all they did was to detain me for a moment to check my identity and nonexistent criminal record. Then the welcome words “Gene, you’re free to go!” rang out, but I had to stall for a moment and ask them a question concerning the proper protocols for smuggling live pet ducks through their country. This posed a big problem, and I was given a number to call. One suggestion was to have the ducks fly across the border, and pick them up on the other side. Hah hah. Poor ducks. It must feel awful to be so regulated and unwanted. I was surprised, but they hadn’t even asked what I had as far as food and fruit! Dangit. I could have kept my contraband apples and pears, and I sure did miss eating them on the ride.
Once across, I came across something I wasn’t prepared for. Was I speeding? Was I going too slowly? Was I going to fly off the embankment around that corner? Just what does 50 kilometres per hour mean, eh? I placed a call to Michele, who was happy I wasn’t being carted off to some interrogation facility, and got a rundown on some of the basic conversions, which I jotted down on a cheat sheet to refer to as I drove. So 50 km/hour is about 30 m.p.h., and 60 equals 40, 70 equals 45, 80 equals 50, 90 equals 55, and 100 km/hour is about as fast as I generally go anyway: 60 miles per hour. So I was set. Of course these are not exact, but close enough, as they say, for government work, so for those of you with precision on your minds, you don’t need to write me an email pointing out my errors. Seemed to be just fine, since I didn’t get arrested, and I didn’t seem to be holding up traffic any more than I would be in the States, and I pull over for those people anyway … they have enough stress in their lives, and after a hard day’s work don’t need some damn hippie on a joyride to get in their way.
The pleasant road wound amiably through serene semi-rural countryside, much like that of northern Washington. Orchards were nestled snugly into the bottom of the valley and fruit stands lined both sides of the highway, but I missed my chance to replenish my supply – I figured there would be more later on, and I was too lazy to stop just yet. Not too far in, I drove by a large rocky edifice looming ponderously over the left side of the road, casting its shadow on the long lake that soon appeared. When I saw the hitchhiking geese, I had to turn back to see if I could get a shot of them, and walked for a moment on the shore of the lake, having parked in a gravel pullout near the geese.
As I about-faced, pulling back onto
the road toward what I see now as a first in a series of mistakes
that I will explain later, a peculiar “squeak”
accompanied the jolt of going back onto the raised roadway in
first gear, and another “squeak” reached my ears as I
engaged second gear. Hmmm. “Now what?” I wondered as
I drove to, and through, Pendicton. I noticed the sound occurred
regularly upon releasing the clutch pedal, and also when taking
corners in town, especially a left turn from a standstill at a
light. Perturbed and perplexed, as I really wanted to make it to
Homer without having a reason to open my toolbox, I pulled off
the road into an unpaved but flat parking area to check things
out. I started with the straps and bunjis on my makeshift luggage
rack. There were a couple things that could have clanked, or even
thunked, but nothing that squoke. Clambering down offa da bus, I
performed a cursory check underneath, and then poked my head into
the engine compartment. Nothing!Since I had a wide-open parking area with no obstacles, I then started and stopped the bus, made turns, listening. It soon became apparent that the only time I could reliably cause the squeak to occur was during clutching, just as the clutch grabbed and the bus lurched into motion. Forward or reverse, it made no difference, so by now I was beginning to think of this parking lot as a potential site for an engine pull and clutch assembly repair. However, one more trip to the back of the bus, and when I leaned upon the driver’s side of the bumper as I was kneeling, I heard my squeak! After that, about two seconds of bumper wrangling pointed me to the source of my sound, and that was that. A quick “hmmmph!” as I adjusted the bumper a bit, and with the tailpipe no longer rubbing on it, I drove away into the descending night, squeakless and happy.
My objective for that night’s drive was to make it over, or to the top of, the hill past Penticton, B.C. This, as the person who warned me of it expressed, would be the biggest hill challenge on the entire trip, so I figured I would tackle it now, at night, and with the ambient air temperature in the low thirties, I would be unlikely to have any overheating problems. This hill is not something I should have had to deal with at all. I see that now, looking back on my drive, my route choices, and the alternatives that I am rather unhappy about missing. I’ll get to that in a moment, probably on the next page, but for now, let me tell you about this hill.
This four-lane, divided superhighway that offers speedy passage over the mountains between Penticton and Merritt was possibly one of the more intense hills I’ve forced a bus over, with the possible exception of the Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado, which was ascended in one gear, that being the gear between first and third. At least I was able to stay in third gear up this hill, but it was a pedal-to-the-metal kind of third gear, and the ascent must have taken thirty to forty minutes. So it seemed. I’ll admit I did not time the ascent, but it was one of the longest, yet most enjoyable climbs, as the high third gear got the engine nice and warm, and that warmth translated through the heat exchangers due to the rapidly spinning fan. This was one of the few times I was warm on this trip!
On the way up, I was lamenting the fact that I could not see the mountains I must surely be driving over … what kind of grandeur must I be missing? Oh well, surely there will be more on the other side, and since I planned to camp somewhere just over the summit, I would be able to see something beautiful, especially with the morning sun. I pressed on. Near the top, I turned off onto a side road that had a convenient pullout, and decided to rest there for the night. Once again, I had chosen a rather disappointing camp spot, and would be denied my traditional “through-the-rear-window” or “through-the-split-screen” sunrise photo opportunities! This trip so far, and especially this superhighway I was now parked just off of, was most un-backroadbus-worthy, and I had little excuse except for that lousy differential pin!
The best part of the disillusionment could wait for morning … for now I enjoyed a fine amber ale, a light dinner, and a starry sky …
Next: Homer Bound Trip Report: Page Four
Gene Cornelius
mizamook@geemail dot com
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