Padre Island National Seashore, Texas

It took a week in Texas to finally pry the sun out of the ocean. It was still warmer than Michigan, and we made the best of it selling books, walking the beach, and spotting a Jaguarundi in Aransas Wildlife Refuge.

We went into the AWR to see whooping cranes.

 http://www.nwf.org/whoopingcrane/

It is their winter hangout and the easiest place to spot them. After watching them for a while, it was getting late and we decided to drive a 16-mile wildlife viewing loop before sunset. El Gato was right in the road, crossing into the high dune grass and hammock. Our first thought was Cougar, not knowing about the Jaguarundi. We were confused because it seemed too small for a mountain lion, and it was almost a chocolate brown color. It had the right tail, so we figured it had to be Mr. Puma himself, only young. If I’m confusing anyone, a cougar, panther, mountain lion, and puma are all the same critter. The ranger at the visitor center seemed to think we saw a mountain lion. She said it was a rare sighting but that they were known to be in the area. Still not convinced, we went home and Googled the wildlife refuge and known suspects that live there. Up popped our feline, no question. More of a Mexican mammal, they are seen occasionally in coastal regions of Texas. For wildlife freaks like us, this is like a seven on the richter scale. Jaguarundi Info

No sunshine had been kind of a bummer, not only for sought after warmth but also for solar energy. We like to boon dock camp (no hookups), so I installed a solar panel on the roof of the motor home before leaving Michigan. Without it (or the sun) our battery only lasts a few days, then we need electricity to recharge. Our plan was to move down to Padre Island National Seashore and camp out on the beach for a week or so. It is the only place in the U.S., that I know of, that you can drive right out on the beach and park with the waves outside your door. We arrived during a stormy week of bad barometrics, rain and wind. A combination that makes beach boon docking almost impossible. We stayed up in the regular park campground, which is a 100 yards up off the beach. We could still beach comb and walk for miles along the coast and sleep comfortably knowing we would not be washed out to sea. Finally, after four days, we decided it seemed calmer so we moved to the beach. We spent cocktail hour (5-6) looking out at high tide, which we were told would be 6 o’clock, to see how close to the motor home it was getting. It only washed under us a couple times and we figured it would begin receding after dark. We decided to stay-- until the rangers showed up and convinced us differently. They didn’t demand we leave but suggested it might be in our best interest. So it was back to the campground for the night. The next day we went to Corpus Christi, stayed at the Mustang State Park to recharge the battery, buy grub, and wait out the storm. It worked. The sun finally made its appearance on Friday. We moved out to the beach at Padre. The surf was tamed, the solar panel was charging, the pelicans were kettling, our closest neighbor was a couple of coyotes, and the beach was littered with every kind of shorebird we could find in our Geographic bird book. It was truly “sucking the juice out of life.”   

BEATING THE BLIZZARD

Traveling is an adventure. You never know where you are going to end up and what the stories will turn out to be along the way. On this trip the plan was to beat the snow out of Michigan. So far, so good. We did hear about a snowstorm in Houston, TX. We are hoping they have that all out of their system before we get that far south. It has been cold at night so far along the Natchez Trace and brisk during the day but the further south we roll the more it’s beginning to look “less” like Christmas.

My Uncle Vic loaned me a GPS when I left. This is my first experience with one. I have to say, “I am not impressed.” Doesn’t it seem odd that Garmin would use the voice of a very dominant women, who can’t make up her mind and with no sense of direction, to guide you through the spider web of American roads. She has me hang left when the exit is three lanes and semi’s to the right. I may be a sick puppy but I find myself arguing with this broad. Gaila says I can’t use the “B” word anymore, so I call her a Witch, as in “Witch way do you want me to go this time bitch.” She’s mad at me now, Gaila and the Witch. I can’t get any navigation help from either of them anymore. 

Our first unplanned turn of events happened in Kentucky along I-65. I sped up a bit to make room for an 18-wheeler coming out of a truck scale. When I let up on the throttle my engine backfired like a cannon shot through the motor home. I stopped at the next exit to check things out and found my backfire was one of my inner dual tires quickly expelling air. I had the brakes done before we left and the mechanic did not hook up the extension between the two tires. It hung down and rubbed against the brand new tire for five hundred miles before the extension wore through and blew. The tire was also shot as it had rubbed a soft spot in the tire too. 

I’m always a little nervous when someone works on my rig, especially if it turns out to be Homer and Jethro. We stopped at a tire dealer and sure enough H&J both worked there. They were trying to pull my hubcap off by hand, slappin’ each other upside the head and comparing tatoos. I decided to watch them like a hawk.

We met our friends from home, (the Fosdicks) at the tire store. They were headed for Alabama along I-65 the same time we were. By cell phone we kept in touch and planned to meet at the exit to Mammoth Cave National Park. We thought we would miss them when we had to leave the expressway to find a tire store, but they have a GPS with a different woman than mine and came right to the tire store and found us with no problem. It’s a small world. We hardly ever see them at home and end up having a reunion at a Kentucky tire store. 

We love reading about the history of the Natchez Trace. There should be more of these scenic roadways that allow no commercial traffic. For 444 miles we move south along a beautiful parkway at 45 m.p.h. No traffic signals or stop signs, picture perfect pavement, historical pullovers every few miles, free campgrounds and lots of hikes and friendly people. 

Still traveling after all these years!

THE PRAYING MECHANIC

On our way back from Yellowstone one fall, we decided to detour through the Badlands. A dozen miles south of Wall, South Dakota, we spotted some goats high on a butte, and I pulled over to check them out. My daughter Maggie was only four years old and needed a little exercise anyway. I was at the top of a steep grade. It was a beautiful autumn morning, and everything seemed right with the world. I was hauling a 31-ft. Airstream travel trailer with "Old Blue" our old Chevy Suburban with a lot of miles on its 350 engine. It had been having a hard time pulling in the mountains on that trip, and I was looking forward to some flat land driving. After enjoying the view and watching the goats, we climbed back into our rig and started down the grade into the heart of the Badlands. The engine began to knock as if it were doing all it could to throw a rod. I coasted into a scenic pull out at the bottom of the grade and sat there wondering what to do. I have discovered from past experience that with automobile mechanical problems, the first thing you always do is lift the hood and stare at the engine. I don't know why this is. It must be mind over motor or something because everyone does it. I stared at it for several minutes and concluded that I didn't have a clue what was wrong with it. As I continued to stare, a small-size Toyota pickup pulled up, and an old mountain man-looking character jumped out and hurried over to my truck.
"What's the problem, son?"
"I'm not sure. My engine just started knocking like a woodpecker."
"Fire it up and let me listen," he said
I thought, "Great, here's a guy who understands motors! He can help me." I started the engine and hurried back under the hood to hear the diagnosis.
"Yep, she's knocking all right!"
"Well, thanks," I said. "At least now I know I'm not just hearing things."
The old man started back to his truck. "I've got a tow rope. I'll pull you back to Wall."
"I don't think your pickup will haul this Suburban up that grade."
"Oh, yeah. It's a diesel. It will pull the teeth right out of your head."
Again, I thought, "Oh, great! Now he's a dentist."
We dropped the trailer out in the middle of the Badlands, hooked the truck to the little diesel pickup and as the old man and his grandson hauled us back up the steep grade, diesel fumes were blowing out both sides of the "Little Truck That Could."
They pulled us all the way into Wall, and we found the only mechanic in town. He couldn't look at the engine for a half hour, so we all milled around under the hood and stared some more. We began to find out more about our rescuer. He was videotaping us, so he could show his wife when he and his grandson got back to Tennessee. We found out that he was a retired Baptist minister, and he and his grandson had been traveling around the West, talking to youth groups and sleeping in churches all summer.
They couldn't stay while we waited for the mechanic, but they said they would like to say a little prayer over the engine. So Gaila, Maggie and I held hands with our two new friends and huddled in front of the truck while the old man prayed about our problem.
Soon they bid us goodbye and there we sat, just down the street from Wall Drug, still staring at our broken, but now blessed truck.
The mechanic finally found time to come out and listen to the knocking in the engine and quickly said, "No question! It's a rod."
"We're a long way from Michigan. What do you think we should do?" I asked nervously.
"Well, I've seen them go five miles, and I've seen them go another 50,000. If I were you, I would put some heavyweight oil in it and head for Michigan."
Since I had about enough money left to buy a nickel glass of water at Wall Drug, that sounded like the most fiscally feasible thing we could do. I bought some heavyweight oil, poured it in, and we headed back into the Badlands. Just a few miles outside of Wall, things got real quiet. The knocking had stopped, and the engine started purring like a tomcat in a creamery. We hooked onto the trailer and made it all the way back home. We then drove that truck for another four years and sold it to a farmer who wanted the engine to drive a wind turbine.
I told my wife, Gaila, "Had I realized the full potential and power of prayer, I would have asked for a paint job too!

JUMP OR SWIM

There is a fine art to RV septic dumping. Gaila is an expert after dumping for five months when I hiked the Continental Divide. Now and then she will let me take a turn at the dump station. That was the case recently in Cody, Wyoming. We found a city RV dump station by going on the internet. Yes, the internet can even tell you where to take a dump. I did everything by the book as Gaila stood by to grade my performance. My plan was to fill up nearby with fresh water after dumping, but before I could do that a large tour bus pulled up. There was a big sign that stated, “No Commercial Dumping” but these two Canadians must not have understood English. I could see them considering their options. One was obviously the driver and the other was a slick looking tour chaperone who seemed most talented at smoking his cigarette and suggesting how the driver should go about dumping his bus full of ballast. I heard Slick say to the driver, “We can just back it up close to the hole and let ‘er go, eh?” When they started backing up next to us I told Gaila to run for her life. We jumped in the motorhome and we made a quick retreat. These turkeys didn’t even have a sewer hose. They just backed over the dump station and let’er fly, splashing everywhere. The driver was doing all the dirty work, and Slick Willy was running in the opposite direction holding his nose, puffing on his weed and yelling, “Oh, my God that stinks, eh?” 

The septic outlet on an RV is on the driver’s side of the vehicle so that irresponsible people cannot dump on the side of the road. It is obvious that this isn’t true with tour buses. I am not sure when the RV industry implemented the new location for black and gray water outlets. Trailers in the 50’s and 60’s had the dump outlet on the road side of the vehicle so that trailer owners could dump on the shoulder. I can see how that would have fallen out of favor as millions of Americans took to the road in recreational vehicles. Anyway, our new method of dumping the motorhome septic is to first check for Canadian Tour Bus operators, then get in and out fast. --Keep Smilin’

CASCADES TO THE ROCKIES

I don’t know why we had never been to Crater Lake before. We just skirted it on past trips. What a cool place. My knees have been giving me problems since my hike in Glacier or we would have done a lot more hiking around the lake. 

The morning we were leaving the park our Saturn decided to die. My brother-in-law (a much better mechanic than I)  was heading back to California and not even out of sight when it stopped running. We have still been using it but have to push start it. I push and Gaila pops the clutch. She is getting better at it all the time. The first time she didn’t have it in gear. I’ll have to put a starter in it when we get home, I just don’t feel like climbing under it and dealing with it on the road. 

This traveling is wonderful. Gaila used to complain that I drank too much coffee but now she has decided “If I can’t beat ‘em, I’ll join ‘em.” As you can see by the picture we have a supply wagon full of coffee that shadows us wherever we go. 

Once we reached the Eastern side of the Cascades in Oregon there was a dramatic change in scenery. It is very dry and rolling terrain. A lot of second gear climbing but not a chore with an air conditioned motorhome. I think it might have been a bit more difficult with a covered wagon full of arrows. Idaho flattens right out and we watched ranchers combining and haying this year’s last cutting. 

We followed “Goodale’s Cutoff” http://www.idahohistory.net/OTgoodale.html one of many shortcuts along the historic Oregon Trail. We visited Craters of the Moon National Monument and hiked through a lava tube 60 ft. deep and 800 ft. long. Blistering hot up top on the lava field and amazingly cool through the tube. Pigeons were roosted in the cool tubes which proves that birds are not stupid.

Fifty miles west of Idaho Falls, ID the Rockies come into view. You can see from the bottom of the Wind River Range up into Yellowstone, with the Grand Tetons anchoring the center of the horizon. This area is the largest volcanic region in the world and the surrounding landscape make it evident. 

Teton Pass into Jackson Hole, WY is a first gear, slow climb up, and a first gear, fast, sphincter tightening ride down the other side.

Jackson Hole was a unique, small western town when I was a kid but I see no resemblance today. We drove through quickly and I think I will just drive around it in the future. We camped just inside Grand Teton National Park and ate breakfast the next morning with the mountains framing our motorhome picture window. Not a cloud in the sky, four moose in the field and me pushing a Saturn through the campground as Gaila pops the clutch. Is that sucking the juice out of life, or what?

Yellowstone is closing up for the winter and although the weather is perfect, they must know from the past that it’s going to get cold soon. 

September has always been a golden time of year to travel. Once school starts around the country the vacationing traffic thins considerably. But I am noticing a silent invasion. It is getting much busier during the fall. It is the invasion of the boomerang gang (boomers). As the Geritol Posse grows, the busier recreational destinations are becoming in the fall season. Maybe with global warming we will have extended fall seasons that will accommodate larger crowds. 

The other thing you have to deal with at the end of the season in National Parks are some cranky rangers. They have spent the last several months answering every stupid question imaginable and they just can’t take it anymore. I just love stopping at the Visitor Centers and asking really stupid questions to see how many of them I can push over the edge. 

That’s all for now out here in the Wild West. Keep Smilin’, Dick

HOW TO BLOW YOURSELF UP ON THE ROAD

Hauling a large tank of propane around under your seat is maybe not the best idea but it is convenient. It runs the motorhome hot water heater, refrigerator and furnace. It’s a necessity if you want cold beer, a bath and a warm space to enjoy hot coffee on a chilly morning. The tank itself has what is known as a pop-off valve. When filling the tank you want to make sure the attendant opens the pop-off valve. When the liquid fuel reaches the valve it starts spewing gas and you know the tank is properly filled to 80%.  

The way you know it is not done right is very simple. You start in Montana with a guy with brown teeth who’s complaining about it being cold and that he was lassoed into doing this filling job. I should have been watching him but I was busy doing other things. I thought, when he handed me my bill, that $39.78 was a little steep for propane, but I paid and headed down the road into Kalispell, MT. 

All of a sudden it sounded like someone took a shot at us with a shotgun. A few seconds later they fired again. My thought was the refrigerator was trying to light and getting too much gas. I pulled over in the perfect spot--a funeral home parking lot. After inspecting the propane tank I thought maybe it was through expanding in the morning sun and finished with the mini-explosions. Again, we started down the road, and again the explosions. 

I saw what I thought was another propane dealer. I pulled in and discovered it was a Schwan’s Food distributor. Luckily for us, the manager was well-trained in propane as all their trucks are run on propane. He grabbed a pair of gloves and popped the valve, releasing lots of pressure. I could see the dollar bills shooting out of the tank. He said not to touch it without gloves as it was two million degrees below zero. He also suggested not releasing it like this around any smokers or open flame of any kind. On a cold morning he said it would just float low to the ground looking for something to blow up. The moral of the story is: Know how your propane fill should be done. Watch the attendant to make sure it is done properly, especially if he has brown teeth and complains a lot about having to work on a chilly morning. 

ON THE MOVE--WE HOPE!

Once I cross the Mighty Mac and start heading west on Hwy 2, I am born again. It almost didn’t happen this time. After a month of readying the motorhome and getting techno road abled with a laptop and DC powered printer, so we could take the book business anywhere, things went south fast the night before we were leaving. Gaila was working at Munson Urgent Care when she started having chest pains. They were not sure she was going to make it to her 59th birthday, just hours away. They gave her an EKG, a chest and abdominal X-ray, blood pressure monitoring and a check of all her vitals. After checking her vitals they discovered her problem was vittles. I could have saved her a ton of money. I had just told her that morning that she was full of shit. But she wanted a professional opinion I guess. Now she is on constipation meds and I will be looking for RV dumping stations all the way to Seattle. Keep Smilin’, Dick E. Bird