Thursday, October 6

If I've learned nothing else on this trip, I've come to know that the writers of hike descriptions are a bunch of sadistic SOB's.  They use terms like "easy," "moderate," and "flat," knowing that despite mounting experience to the contrary, I will take their words at face value and set out on another flat, easy trail. More on that later.

We left Missoula a hundred years ago, or was it a week ago? Before we departed Kim (of Tia's Big Sky) and Sarah took us into Idaho and we hiked in (flat, easy - not) to the Jerry Johnson hot springs. Beautiful setting; the springs create pools right next to a pretty creek, so you can alternately boil and then jump into the creek and freeze.

Sarah at Jerry Johnson Hot Springs

That was our last full day in Montana for now. By the next morning we had changed our mind about our itinerary. After one last huge Mexican lunch with Sarah at Tia's Big Sky, we took to the road.

Sarah heading for work on our last morning in Missoula  

We decided we'd go via Idaho thorough a town called Bonner's Ferry to the Canadian border, then take Canada Route 3 to the Vancouver area. 

Before long, on the side of the road in Troy, Montana we came upon the Koutenai Falls. After about a half mile hike down from the road we were rewarded with a dramatic view of the falls and a chance to cross the river gorge on a very wobbly suspension bridge (Kate declined this latter opportunity).

Moving on, we spent the night in a National Forest campground (free!). There was a farmer's market the next morning in Bonner's Ferry where we bought some freshly made scones. Crossing the border into Canada was a breeze, once we turned the rig inside out looking for Kate's passport -- and found it! We headed west on Route 3 through British Columbia, a pretty drive rising up over several passes and down into several valleys.

On the way west we stopped at a turnout to admire the view. We were approached there by a motorcyclist dressed in black leather from head to toe, wearing a black helmet and black sunglasses, and sporting on his lapel a large skeleton figure holding a martini.  The motorcyclist's name is Travis. He lives in Calgary with his 81-year-old mother and 83-year old father, who he takes care of. He used to travel more extensively, but now he limits his trips to a few weeks at a time because his parents need more help these days. Travis earns his living as a silversmith/designer making custom pieces in his basement workshop, including rings (four of which he was wearing on his right hand). He showed us photos of several pieces he has designed, and of several motorcycles he has owned. He doesn't have a website; he keeps busy through word-of-mouth contacts.  We spent only five minutes with Travis, but we got to know him a little and found his life was quite different than we might have expected. That's how it goes on the road.....

Travis

While navigating across Canada we got interested in North Cascades National Park. Neither of us had ever heard much about it, in fact neither of us knew much of anything about it. So we decided to turn left and head back into the U.S. to check it out.  Our border crossing back into the U.S. was not a breeze. The border station at the little town where we crossed was a tiny booth -- it looked sort of like a drive-through teller window at a bank, only without a bank attached.  There was a stop sign, at which we stopped. The shades were drawn in the booth; it looked like no one was home.  We inched forward, trying to peer into the booth. Suddenly two uniformed officers burst around the corner and shouted "Where do you think you're going?" I said we weren't sure -- it didn't look like anyone was home. "Didn't you see the stop sign?" "Yes, we stopped, but nothing happened." "Well, just back up and wait until the light turns green." (It turns out that there was also a sort of traffic light over near the booth window that we hadn't noticed.) We backed up, we waited. Maybe four or five minutes. The border guards had disappeared. It occurred to me that they might not ever return, unless we made a break for it.  Eventually one of them did show up, and the light turned green.  He asked the usual run of questions, including how long we had been in Canada (five hours) and where we live (reflexively, we said Palo Alto). Clearly it was suspicious that we only visited Canada for five hours and that we live in California but we have Oregon license plates. We explained, sort of. I was beginning to picture myself clapped in irons in a little booth on the Canadian border.  Finally (reluctantly, I thought) we were waved through. (No photos here; I thought that would be the final straw).

Having escaped into the U.S., we drove for several more hours until at dusk we reached a campground that had looked good on paper, outside (way outside) a small town called Tonasket, Washington. Nobody home. It looked like an RV ghost town. Mostly unfilled spaces, with a few rigs parked here and there -- dark, empty, uninhabited.  We drove on, as it got duskier.  We saw a sign for "Spectacle Lake Resort," so we took a side road (off the side road we were already on) to see what we could see.  

They were open! We had a place to stay. Again, not many customers.

Just us -- We had the lakeside to ourselves.

Once more we had managed to arrive at a campground with no fire wood.  We asked if they had any for sale. Nope. I was crestfallen, but we went to settle in for the night. A few minutes later the proprietors drove up with a big box of wood from their private stock, and dumped it at our feet. We had a really good campfire that night, and they refused our offer to pay for the wood the next day.

Speaking of the next day, when we awoke in the morning we were treated to quite a nice view.

Spectacle Lake in the early morning, hills across the way dotted with neat rows of apple and cherry trees.

I know some readers (if there are any) are eating their hearts out at the high life we're leading. Just to rub it in, I'll show you the spa at Spectacle Lake Resort.

And at every campsite there is a sewage dump.

Kate enjoying the morning dump.

Real Washington apples along the roadside.

Leaving Tonasket, we drove south and west through the Okanogan territory, and then westward on Route 20 toward North Cascades NP. Another two lane road, another trip with dramatic vistas.

Route 20 essentially has been carved out of granite over the past 150 years, beginning with paths scratched out by gold miners in the 1850's to pack in their prospecting supplies. The road winds along the side of a gorge which was originally created by a glacier, and which now provides a path for the Skagit River (pronounced Skajit), second largest in Washington (the Columbia is first).  

North Cascades NP is kind of quirky.  It's packed with places of interest, stunning scenery, good hiking trails, beautiful camping areas, etc. But compared to other national parks, there's no there there. One road, Route 20, passes through it. There's no sign saying "Welcome to North Cascades National Park," no gate to stop at when entering the park, and at this time of the year at least, no findable humans who work at the park in any capacity. (We did eventually find one man who does maintenance at the park. He told us that only four rangers work in the park -- total.) 

Our first stop, once it occurred to us that we were actually in the park, was at a viewing area for Ross Lake. Astonishingly beautiful (I really need to expand my vocabulary somehow).

We had researched the status of campgrounds at the park before arriving, and we headed for one that was definitely still open. It wasn't. Familiar situation. Dusk approaching, no idea where we can find a place to camp, nobody around to ask.  We drove on, caught a glimpse of a sign for a campground we'd not heard of, decided we had nothing to lose, and took another side road to look for it. Eureka!

Gorge Lake Campground is tiny, with only seven campsites. But one was available, and we grabbed it. A gorgeous spot along the Skagit, with its turquoise waters colored by glacier dust.

Kate settles in.

Walking a hundred yards or so up the road, we discovered our campsite was adjacent to a village of sorts. There are a few dozen houses, a community center, tennis and basketball courts, what once was a public swimming pool, a two track funicular -- all nestled near a large electric power plant. The village clearly has seen better days. Some of the houses apparently are inhabited, but most seem abandoned and are in disrepair. The electric plant seemed to be operated by "Seattle City Light," but no one was around to answer any questions. I spotted a lone vehicle driving in the village and flagged it down. A woman named Debbie told me a little about the place. The village is called Diablo. It's a company town, housing workers for the public electric company serving Seattle. 

Diablo is a company town for workers maintaining Diablo dam and Powerhouse.

The funicular originally was built to help transport materials and equipment to build the dam. Later it became a tourist attraction -- buses would arrive from Seattle carrying visitors who would ride the funicular into town and be treated to a big chicken dinner at the community cook house. After 9/11 it was deemed a security risk to allow tourism; the town has withered since then and is now being partially demolished. Another City Light town, Newhalem, is still thriving six miles down river, serving the Gorge dam and powerhouse. In all there are three dams and hydroelectric plants on the Skagit, providing Seattle with 20% of its electricity.

Diablo Powerhouse.

Somehow Debbie became our new best friend. She works for City Light and lives in a house in Newhalem. Immediately she offered us wood for our campfire from her stock at home, loaded up a wheelbarrow and brought it to the curb. During the next few days we saw her often (we had to come to Newhalem to get cellular coverage, a major attraction).  

Our friend Debbie.

One day we hiked up the Setattle Creek trail near our campsite -- actually a flat trail, and beautiful, with old growth trees, probably a thousand years old.

Old growth red cedar on Setattle Creek trail.

Near the end of our stay at North Cascades, we decided to hike the Diablo Lake trail, listed as "moderate," with 400 feet elevation gain in 7.6 miles. "If you like, when you get half way at 3.8 miles take the ferry back to the start of the trail." 

Uphill for 5 miles.

There were very lovely parts of the trail, to be sure, but it was relentlessly uphill. Note that almost all trail pictures include Kate as a small dot, far ahead in the distance.

After five miles uphill, it seemed unlikely that a ferry would be climbing up to greet us. Indeed the last half mile or so descended what seemed like a few thousand feet to a suspension bridge across the Skagit. The question(s): Is there really a ferry? Is it still running? If not, we can hike back five or six miles or maybe try to find the highway and hitchhike back to the rig.

The omens were not auspicious.

And finally, the tunnel to the ferry:

A boat was seen.

Kate chased it, waving her walking sticks and yelling. It wasn't a ferry.

It started to rain.

At last. The ferry did exist, and we made our way back.

On the day of our departure from North Cascades, we stopped as usual at Newhalem. There was Debbie. She insisted on smuggling us into the Gorge Inn for lunch (only City Light employees allowed), and insisted on paying for our meals. 

And quite a lunch it turned out to be.

We bade farewell to Debbie, and set out again. After five weeks of living and sleeping in the rig, we decided to take a rig break. Now we're at a Marriott in Bellingham, Washington for a couple of days. Then, on to the San Juan Islands and the Olympic Peninsula. Maybe.