Winnebago Route 101
We travelled the US Pacific Highway a while back over a six week period without too much forward planning – we needed to escape.
Picking up the ’40 foot Rig’ in the Seattle rush hour was a bit of a pants changing moment, but ‘hey’ the vehicle was fully loaded for such emergencies (even if it meant clogging the bath/shower drainage system).
We turned around after 3 weeks when we arrived in North California deciding to save that famous State for another time – we’d had a bundle of experiences (mostly good and happy); I’ll share a few at some point.
One I must recount now was when we pulled into a registered site up near the Canadian border – it was the first week of October (our last couple of nights) and Autumn was already nearing its end and the ‘Bear’ signs needed to be considered as these big fellas like to fatten up before winter.
Many US off-main route motor-home sites are mostly ‘site yourselves and put a cheque in the honesty box’.
In this instance it was a typical remote track, but now full of fallen leaves caused by sharp frosts which had resulted in numerous half empty tall trees before giving way to coniferous forest.
As we slowly picked our way through I spotted a guy gathering some wood; his hair was be-draggled and hanging down to his shoulders in greasy strands. His grey tent, yes tent, was close-by behind some thick bushes. Naturally a slight uneasy feeling emerged which was not helped by the increasing number of thick bushes.
What else was to be found in this ‘no-where place?
The answer soon appeared as we came across a very elderly gent who had unwittingly steered his car over a sizeable rock submerged beneath the foot-thick fallen foliage.
Three wheels touching the ground left his car at a weird angle; it was obvious that there was insufficient traction. He was looking forlorn as he kept brushing his sparse comb-over hair style.
His concerns were even more apparent as he moved his gaze towards us and away from a frowning lady some twenty years his junior.
At least he didn’t pose a threat, and he greeted me with an awkward smile as I approached.
After a chat I found some logs to slide under the airborne wheel only to see some flashing orange lights that turned out to be a recovery vehicle.
My wife went off to investigate some watery sounds that meant there were some rapids nearby.
As I let the professionals do their work the lady stopped me.
“Boy, what a beautiful spot – how long are you staying?”
“I don’t think we will – I’m a bit uncertain.”
She looked amazed “Uncertain? Why?” She looked across at the bedraggled loaner who was staring into nowhere across from his tent. ” If that guy can exist in a tent, and you’ve got all this luxury …..”
“Well that hairball over there looks a bit unstable and …”
“Oh where’s your sense of adventure? You Brits …..”
I felt I needed to stop her before she began a lecture. “He must be carrying a gun, have you seen the Bear Signs?”
“He could protect you.” She gave me an all knowing confident smile.
I looked her up and down; her high heels and flamboyant clothing didn’t inspire any reasoning that she knew anything about these forested mountains. “Excuse me Ma’am but you’re not from round here are you!! Also, I can see from here the ‘gobstopper eyeballs’ on our camper neighbour – he worries me more than the bears and I’ve got burgers to fry tonight. God only knows what he’s on.”
A loud but friendly voice came down from the truck – Get yourself a decent gun, Man.”
I looked up at the tough looking vehicle recovery guy. “I’m a foreigner mate; I can’t have a gun.”
“Then get the hell outa here.” He glanced at the lady and threw up his hands as if to say ‘what does she know.’
The next bit is a classic. She turned to me “I’m so, so very sorry about our gun culture here.” She paused only for a second, “but I do hope you are grateful for all what we did for you in the War.”
What on earth do you say to that?
She just didn’t understand when I rolled up laughing.
I might have said that we spent 50 years paying the US back, but I’m an Americanofile, and glad I didn’t.
