Hi folks, this is blog #1 of the winter journey. It is called "Getting Out of Dodge".
4AM. Open eyes. Squint. Very dark and under the comforter it is cosy, warm and relaxing. But it is THAT time. The one where we rise, sup tea, collect last things, sup more tea, watch the early news, sup more tea. Say goodbye to donkeys, goat, neighbour, garden and trudge through the cold dark with Flossie dancing, tripping us. Curse small dogs and dark dark mornings. Shiver in the cold.
We have 45 minutes to catch the 6:15 AM ferry and the timing is crucial. With the 6:15 to Nanaimo, we have enought time to make it to the big ferry with half an hour to spare. That gets us to the US border at 11AM and depending on how busy it is, we should be at the nephew's in Bellingham Washington by noon. The whole thing is a a house of cards. One falter along the route means our plans crash and burn. OK, so I am being a wee bit dramatic. But I just want to ensure that you, Dear Reader, appreciate the stress that forced us out of our beds, and into that Chevie 3/4 ton pickup truck at 5:30 in the morning, a frosty morning to make the 6:15 ferry.
Disaster struck. It was that West Coast sense of entitlement. The one that makes us scoff at watching east coast blizzards on TV. And this morning it brought us to our knees. The windshield was encased in frost. Encased. Not something that the windshield wipers could handle in a swipe. Something that meant searching for that ice scraper. Where the heck did we put that thing growls someone from the driver's seat. A scramble, a few choice words, and eventually something is found and the windshield yields to it. Precious moments pass. And then, as we creep down the big hill to the road, the awful truth hits us square on. BLACK ICE.
There is nothing that inspires more fear in a Canadian's heart than black ice at 5:30 in the morning. Especially before the sanding trucks have not even pulled out of their yard. Then that awful west coast moment struck again, when we looked at each other and say "Do we even HAVE a sanding truck on Gabriola?"
Well all went reasonably well, even without any sign of a sanding truck, we crept along at half speed, hugging the crest of the road. Nobody was much out at this time of an icy morning and there is nothing like a wee bit of stress to activate the brain cells at an ungodly hour, right? But the long and the short of it is, we made it.
And here we are. Camped in downtown Kent Washington, at the foot of the son's subdivision, at 6:37 AM near Seattle, ready to move on to the next day's surprises. It is 28 degrees F. Stay tuned.
There is just one more philosophical comment I would like to leave you with about this embryonic trip and it is about trains and campgrounds. Yes, trains!!
Where I grew up in Ontario, my godmother lived in a little place called Concord. She had a huge garden filled with Iris, and at the end of it was set of train tracks. On visiting there my sister and I hung onto the wire fence at the end of the garden, praying for a train to come along so we could wave to all the people. It was the time of the turnover from steam to diesel, and once in a while we would still see a steam train chugging through. That day a train did come and we waved furiously at all the people on board. Some of them even waved back. And then the most amazing thing happened: we actually saw someone we knew. It was Lorne Bishop who was at least 10 years older than us, and lived on a farm near us. We were astounded. Never did we ever think that we would actually know someone on this magical black beast, panting and puffing it's way to Toronto. So you can appreciate that I have always had a fine relationship with trains, and their special mystique. It also helps to be married to a man who's father worked all his life fixing train engines for Union Pacific railway.
In any case, one of the biggest reality checks toward trains I have had, came with moving out west. Trains out here need to be avoided at all cost. And that is because, out here, trains are laid out right through the middle of towns. In fact, I have it backwards. Many towns were laid out deliberately around trains. Which means, Dear Reader, that the campground that looks so splendid and inviting, with swimming pools and yes, Dear Reader, sometimes even with palm trees, also probably has, lurking somewhere near to it, a train track. Perhaps if snugged into some eastern valley surrounded and muffled by a maple bush that would be idyllic to hear in a far distant kind of way. But, on prairies where a sneeze can be heard all the way to Omaha, it ain't.
Now one would think, that here, in the middle of a major civilized place like Seattle Washington, humming with progress due to those healthy inputs from Boeing and Amazon, and squatting here in the sprawl of the affluent upper middleclass neighbourhoods down the Kent Valley, that we could afford to be relaxed in our somewhat irrational fear towards the iron monsters. But no that is not so. After a lovely evening spent with son and daughter-in-law in their new home in a very respectable neighbourhood, we returnd to our camper only minutes away, to climb into our warm, cosy, comfy bed. And as we turned the last light off, and the dog between us started to snore, we heard that approaching familiar dreaded whistle…Oh no we cried!!
No photos yet. We are still trying to get out of Dodge. Once we actually get the chores done, the appointments behind us, the shopping achieved, we will settle into the main part of the trip, and the photos will come. Until then we freeze, and I carp, and Rick pretends not to hear.
Rick Here: Note to self….Avoid driving through Seattle during the afternoon rush hour while pulling camper (caravan for those UK readers)…...
