Day 2 - Alturas, California to LaPine, Oregon - 212.8 miles

Today was a pretty perfect day considering it didn’t exactly end well. First it dawned clear and bright, just perfect for Mother’s Day. My onboard personal chef microwaved up a homemade waffle apiece -- brought from home in the freezer -- and we combined it with orange juice, bacon, and fresh berries of several varieties. Add a cup of black coffee each and we were indeed set for the day, which promised to encompass a scenic drive into the interior of the Oregon “Outback.”

After gassing up in Alturas and heading north on highway 395, it soon became apparent that we were going to be seeing quite a few miles of, well, quite a few miles: vast uninhabited valleys; long tracts of rolling farmland interspersed with the occasional farmstead; long climbs into timbered foothills where only the “scenic view” turnouts marred the otherwise pristine tracts of untrod wilderness. It would have been a great opportunity to play a book on tape. Unfortunately, we had forgotten to unpack one and neither one of us felt like doing it “at the moment.”

So, as they say, we spent the day cruising along at 60 mph, enjoying the largely unspoiled scenery, chatting about how much we just loved the unspoiled scenery, and hoping against hope that something would appear on the horizon that might prompt us to stop and capture with camera and IPhone some fascinating attraction like “The World’s Second Biggest Ball of Twine,” or the ever popular “Baby Rattlers,” that just shouldn’t be missed.

Of course we DID see the odd photo op as we cruised along. But evidently Oregon has some sort of rule about limiting the average shoulder width on our selected route to no more than four feet. Presumably, that ensures that anyone forced to pull over due to an unexpected flat tire or overheated radiator will be able to safely park their vehicle in the bottom of the adjacent flood-control ditch, thus eliminating any roadside hazard for motorists speeding by. We saw one chap in a Subaru who had experienced a right-rear flat. He sat helpless, half on and half off the tiny shoulder, his head on the steering wheel, his vulnerable station wagon blocking half of the travel lane. Lucky us that no one was coming the other way which might have prevented us from moving into the oncoming lane to pass the poor fellow. I hope Triple-A rescued him promptly.

Naturally, piloting a vehicle that is just over eight feet wide means that a shoulder of at least ten feet wide is a must should a pullover be desired. This means that many and sundry fabulous photos have been missed due to lack of turnout availability. My favorite today was a giant sagging red barn. This structure had been in its heyday nothing short of magnificent, but in recent decades had fallen –- let’s change that to “experienced” –- some obvious hard times. It was as if the noble structure had inadvertently been situated over a sucking bog or field of quicksand and was now only a few short weeks from disappearing into the soil that had given birth to it. I fretted about missing that shot for the rest of the day, darn it!

By lunch time we had reached the tiny berg of “Paisley, Oregon.” Not sure from whence the name was derived, but we did notice that the streets tended to be named after individual colors like green and blue. Maybe at some point all the creatively colored streets come together to form some sort of paisley roundabout. The town of Paisley didn’t turn out to be very exciting, but it did have a nice old school building from a century ago that came complete with a giant Siberian Elm that afforded our lunchtime break with loads of shade. Being Sunday, no one was about and we enjoyed a very enjoyable lunch complete with soft breezes and the singing of birds. After lunch, it was back on the highway with our intended nighttime destination, Bend, Oregon.

If you read the title to this blog you already know we didn’t make it to Bend. By the time 3:00 p.m. rolled around and we found ourselves in the unlikely berg of LaPine, Oregon, we decided that we needed to make a quick stop for a couple of grocery items and then we might as well just find a camp and call it a day. After all, it was cocktail hour.

Our shopping out of the way, Concetta suggested that we head for the nearby State Park which promised, according to the guide book, to afford us with “full hookups.” Now being a seasoned RVer of over 30,000 miles, I just knew that any guidebook sentence that included the words state park would seldom, if ever, include the words “full hookups.” But Concetta was adamant that it was so. Okay,” I said, and off we went. Moments later, as we cruised right by a perfectly charming camp right on the highway, I suggested that maybe we might want to choose the bird in the hand, rather than the state campsite bird in the bush. But it was nothing doing.

So it was that we very soon came upon our desired turnoff, and six miles from there we entered the state park. As we approached the entrance we could see a number of empty camp spaces, so we stopped and picked up a pay envelope, then headed down a tiny winding road in search of a decent site. I did feel a bit uneasy as I threaded our wide rig between the overhanging pine branches. Most of the occupied sites we passed were tent trailers and other small travel trailer setups, which appeared to fit comfortably within the small campsites. But I couldn't help but wonder how we were going to fare with a much larger machine.

When we finally found what looked like an agreeable, somewhat larger site, I asked Concetta to get out and make sure I wouldn’t be coming too close to any of the numerous pines. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite wait for her to get into position before I began to move back. Almost immediately a scraping sound stopped me dead. I had run the rig’s awing up against an adversarial pine, and quite neatly clipped off a pretty trim piece.

Thinking that I had just trashed the awning itself, I leaped from the driver’s seat all ready to go into orbit, and take it out on Concetta of course, but a quick survey of the damages revealed that the damage was minimal and I quickly calmed down. Deciding that the present site might not be totally suitable for our night’s stay, I moved down the road another half dozen spots and then easily backed into another site where the pines stood back a few more feet.

The only unpleasant surprise left was the one where I discovered, as I had predicted, that there was NO full hookups. There was water, yes. But the electricity was only 110 volts, which meant we’d have to be conservative in our energy use. AND, there was no sewer hookup at all, which meant a dump station would be in our future in the morning. Oh, well, I always regret not putting more confidence in my intuition.

So there you have it. After all the hoopla was over, I got to sit down for my cocktail and do the blog in the quiet of this nice state park – well, until I found out that the internet connection was slightly south of awful, with the Verizon device stating that the link was fluctuating around 20% of normal. So here I am typing this narrative into Microsoft Word and hoping that if I try to upload it a dozen times I’ll have a chance that it will make it to the blog site. As the saying goes, when you leave your comfort zone is when your adventures begin.

Tomorrow we’re once again headed for Bend and then Portland. Somewhere in between we’re going to be quite close to Sisters, Oregon, where one of my junior high friends lives. Who knows, maybe we’ll run into him on the street or in some coffee shop if we motor through. So until tomorrow, I wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.