OF FLAT LAND AND MOUNTAINS

Somewhere in Wyoming 

  

Hurricane Ridge, Olympic Mountains

If there were any doubt that Bucky and I are more of the mountains than of the arid, flat ranch lands of Wyoming, it was validated when we hit the lush, orchards and vineyards of Oregon.  The canyons and valleys offered an immediate feeling of comfort and well being.  Looking out at the organized rows of fruit trees and grapes made me anxious for 5:00pm....my official quitting time, Our driving days can be long, 10 hours the usual, but on occasion, I end my day before Bucky, heading from my co-pilot seat to the comfort of the dinette.  With pastel, plastic wine glass in hand......it is now cocktail hour!  While Wyoming embodied dryness, draining heat and strong winds, the hills and valleys of Oregon wafted the sweetness of ripening fruit and exuded good health.  With the speed limit at 75, not within our reach, and a Wyoming wind almost able to match this, Bucky struggled at times to hold the wheel.  Several times I found myself startled from a state of monatanous drowziness when the tires beneath me hit the rumble strips. 

Harnessing the wind seems easy in WY.

I see Utah!

It was with relief that we skirted the Great Salt Lake and glanced up into the snow capped peaks surrounding Salt Lake City.  The mountains tamed the winds and Bucky's hands relaxed and as he reached for one of mine he mumbled, "this is more like it".  To which I stated the obvious, "yes, we're more of the mountains."

Brigham, Utah sat huddled beneath jagged peaks with the letter B proudly displayed on a hillside above town.  I felt the white steeple was in keeping with a region steeped in the Mormon faith.  It was easy to feel the presence of a greater being with scenery so magnificent.  We slid through southern Idaho wishing we could head up north to Mc Call or slightly east into the Sawtooth Mountains, but knew we needed to stay low and get to Oregon.

fruit fields of Oregon

Mt. Adams, 12,307 feet

Mt. Rainier, 14,410 feet

Long uphills and steep curvy downhills, chain up areas and high mountains shadowed in clouds met the gold of the Oregon valleys.  The smallness of the houses and towns nestled against the greatness of the hills surrounding them greeted us at each turn of the road.  Snoqualie Pass brought us into the high mountains of Washington, the jagged Cascades.



Leaving the Cascades, a place of comfort, we arrived outside of bustling Tacoma, somewhere less comfortable.  Then, quickly out and north onto the Olympic Peninsula, where we had never been before.  We excitedly arrived, 3,200 miles away from Ripton, in sunny Sequim, the one spot on the peninsula that experiences 300 days of sunshine a year!

Cheesman Canyon

We are a family that enjoys fishing.  We each enjoy the sport for different reasons and with different levels of intensity.          If fishing enthusiasm and intensity were able to be measured, Sutton would register in the fanatical range.  So, it was no surprise that he met us in Denver with his rod and reel neatly packed between his dress clothes.  Within hours of arriving and with the help of his Orvis app, he had rented a car and was headed to the South Platte River just outside Deckers, CO.  The following three days, he took advantage of this fabled fishery located about an hour from Denver and close to Colorado Springs.  Cheesman Canyon houses one of the finest stretches of Western trout water with relatively easy public access.  We excitedly tagged along with Sutton on his final day in the Canyon.  Flies and Lies, a fly shop in Deckers, CO, minutes from Cheesman Canyon, provided the needed midges.

tiny, tiny trout bait 

Scouting

The fish could be seen from up high, lying in the current behind the many large rocks in the river.  

Walking along the trail into the Canyon, we were immediately presented with the blackened remains of trees burned during the Heymen fire of 2002.  This fire, which followed years of drought, destroyed thousands of acres.  It's said that the South Platte ran black with ash and fishing was ruined for a number of years.  Young Aspen now thrive beneath the burned trunks of Pine, in the wake of the fire.  Colorado has been blessed with rain this Spring and the So. Platte was running a little high.  It was not possible to cross the river from the area we were fishing, which limited the fishing options, although we saw one angler on the far bank.  The parking area was full when we arrived, yet we were not crowded on the river by fellow anglers. 



                     Cactus and other flowering western wildflowers graced the canyon hillsides.



A fish made off with Sutton's fly in this choice hole.

Some folks find comfort in the pines!



Fisher enjoyed her canyon stroll after having spent two days at Camp Bow-Wow in Denver.  That's another story!!

Fish on!!!

 A Brown Trout

A happy fisherman.  Sutton said it was hard to get fish to take the fly.

There were Mule deer in the grass along the roadside.  This one begged to have its picture taken so I obliged.

Since leaving Denver, we have driven through miles and miles of ranch land with antelope grazing along the Green River in Wyoming. We were surprised by the amount of snow in the mountains outside Salt Lake City and the volume of water in the swollen Snake River in Idaho.  Now the rain hits the windshield as we wind through the river valleys of Oregon.  Next stop, Sequim, WA.



Dead and Alive

"How's he ever going to make it across"?
Bucky and I watched helplessly as a sleek whitetail, in summer red coat, entered the third lane of oncoming traffic. He, a young buck, had successfully negotiated two lanes and now could see the knee high green grass almost within reach.  He stood frozen in the third lane looking at us and those
ahead of us baring down on him. Our trip along Interstate 90 was graced with the beauty of rolling PA hillsides and the peaceful, green calm of the Mohawk River and Erie Canal. Now Ohio spread before us, manicured, non-Amish farmland. I could sense Bucky's sadness as we approached each roadside deer carcass, bloated in the heat.  Each dead deer's formally athletic body lay twisted and contorted by the impact with steel.  Trucks and cars, the wheeled enemies of wildlife daring to venture out onto the blacktop.
"There's another dead one", Bucky commented.
And, when seeing deer grazing away from the highway, "look at those guys, they love the new grass".  There seemed to be no shortage of whitetail deer, dead and alive.  This young buck, marooned in lane three, gave a final glance our way, then with determination sprinted to foraging freedom.  He was well into the field, with grass touching his belly, before he stopped trotting and lowered his head to graze.  My one thought was, "I hope he doesn't make that a habit".
Last night was spent in Indiana at Jellystone Park/Resort, (can you think of a more horrible name?)  Any imagery you might be conjuring of the park's appearance is probably accurate, and should
include a huge concrete statue of Yogi Bear!  Jellystone surrounded a "lake" about the size of our backyard pond in Ripton.  Most of the 900 campsites were occupied by permenant resort residents.  There seemed to be an attempt by each trailer owner to outdo their neighbor in the number of plastic garden sculptures and container plantings used in decorating their small lots.  On our morning walk, Fisher felt compelled to examine and sniff each garden gnome and in a final show of distain for  Jellystone decorating, she peed on an elf!

Bucky decided that the corner Marathon Gas would be our morning coffee stop.  I stayed aboard straightening the cabin littered with Fisher hair as she blows her coat across America.  Twice, we've had Cruise America RVs pass us, each having a smiling Golden Retriever's head peering from the cabin door window, a clever graphic making one feel that traveling with a dog is a breeze!  Why do Goldens always appear to be smiling?  Is it that they struggle to breath through their noses and must leave their mouths somewhat open, resulting in a friendly grin?  Fisher reminds us of Schultz's Pigpen, accompanying Charlie Brown, engulfed in a swirl of dirt and dust.  Hers is a cloud of fine white hair, drifting into the air and covering all that we own.  I looked up from my cleaning in time to see Bucky, juggling two large New England Coffees, hurrying across the parking lot.  A disheveled, middle aged man followed close behind.  Bucky handed me the coffee which I carefully placed in our cab beverage holders, cleared in his absence of the dental floss, used napkins, chapstick and phones.  It's interesting how so many incompatible shapes end up teetering awkwardly in these round recepticles.  I thought to myself, New England coffee, weird.... but instead voiced, "who was that guy"?
Bucky took a long sip of his coffee, a beverage brewed by Indiana water dripping through New England grounds, resulting in a so so cup of joe.
"Oh him..... I think he's homeless".   He went on to say that the "homeless" man had asked if he owned the RV.  Bucky replied that he did, to which the man said, "traveling in that must be FUN".
Bucky assured him that it was great fun, leading the stranger to say, "I'd love to see inside it".
This was when I looked up from my cleaning and heard Bucky's parting words, "you should go to an RV show.  There you can go inside hundreds of RVs".

And, with that we were off, sipping our Indiana New England coffee, listening to our audio book and sharing our cabin with only one invited guest on our trip across America, Fisher Walter.