The French Hitchhiker

Growing up the son of an FBI agent, my dad drilled one lesson into my brain.  Never pick up a hitchhiker.  He claimed a high percent of them were felons and you can’t tell what’s inside the package from the outside.   A corollary he included  -- never hitchhike yourself.   Thus, I obediently spent most of my youth following dad’s admonitions. Until he sent me off to college.

Most young people have to rebel from their parents authority at some point in order to establish their own identity.  I chose hitchhiking to make my secret statement.  And so, after semester breaks, dad took me to the bus station and handed me money for the bus fare back to Middlebury.  With that I would bid him farewell and simply purchase a ticket to the next town.  Hopping off the bus I’d stick out my thumb and chart my own course.  For return trips I’d hitchhike all the way.

I only had one reason to reconsider my choice.  The Vermont driver and his lady companion in the front seat had a love affair with beer and speed.  Fortunately their wheels clung to the road at every turn, but I exhaled a sigh of relief when they dropped me off.

My last day on the road, driving along Canada’s Yellowhead Highway between Smithers, British Columbia and Prince Rupert I saw at least one sign warning motorists not to pick up hitchhikers.  But, there he was, a young man wearing a beret with a big backpack holding a neatly lettered cardboard sign -- Prince Rupert.  

                         The Bulkley River below the falls in Moricetown Canyon, British Columbia
 
With Karen back in the midwest, lonesome best describes my feelings.  Without her or my former favorite travel companion (Niko), for the first time I had room in the car.  Canada always seems safer than the US and I remembered another time after college when, in my mid-20s, I held up a similar sign while carrying a back back as I hitchhiked through New Zealand.  I pulled over to meet Jordan, a Frenchman hitchhiking across Canada.  Prince Rupert was his finish line.

                                       Clouds partially obscure one of my favorite views near New Hazelton, BC

Jordan, it turns out, is a world explorer who will work for awhile until he has saved up enough for his next big adventure.  His cross-Canada odyssey was a chance to improve his facility with the English language.  I had an entire day to cover a half day’s distance, so having driven this route numerous times over the years, decided to play Jordan’s personal tour guide.  We didn’t miss any of my favorite landmarks. 

                  Seeley Lake Provincial Park includes a campground where Karen and I have camped in the past.

                     Another place where Karen and I once pitched our tent is Lakelse Lake near Terrace, BC.

Success -- Jordan made it all the way from Montreal to Prince Rupert. You can see more of Jordan's travels on his blog:  http://snailbreizh.tumblr.com/

In the end, as I dropped my new friend off at the hostel he would stay in,  I figured it was a fine way to end my autumn road trip.  Thus, at 2:30 AM the next day I once again sailed off for Petersburg on an Alaskan ferry.  Karen and I would soon be reunited.

                              A fine sunrise greeted me as the Alaska ferry motored north to our Alaskan home.

Meanwhile Karen began her long travels home -- although not necessarily a straight line -- chauffeured by cousin Connie from Three Lakes, Wisconsin to Solon, Iowa -- flying from Iowa to Minneapolis, Minnesota -- change planes to Seattle, Washington, overnight with our Mandy in Seattle -- fly from Seattle to Petersburg.  Whew.  

                                     Karen bid farewell to her beloved Four Mile Lake, Wisconsin cabin

 

                                      Farewell until next summer to her cousin, Connie Mutel and Sandy...

                            And Connie's Iowa home that she works so hard to maintain in it's natural state.

     And on to the highlight of the return trip for Karen -- an overnight with daughter, Amanda -- a student in Seattle.

     Amanda with her faithful Gigi and a tile she made this past summer.  Yes, Mandy has inherited Karen's art gifts.

Lost in the Wilds of Canada

Note:  This is our next to the last blog installment regarding our autumn, 2013 travels.

Miz Garmin II endeared herself during my plein air odyssey through the Pacific Northwest.  She warned me about upcoming curves, told me where to exit roundabouts so I wouldn't get dizzy, and even when I should make a U-turn because I hadn't been listening.  And never once did she lose her temper although I gave her every reason to.  Never!  Karen should be so lucky when she drives and I'm the copilot.

She was fast becoming a real part of my driving team -- the steering wheel, brake, accelerator, cassette player and now, Miz Garmin II.  We were all together, solid, unshakable.   Life on the road was good.  That is, until we crossed the US -- Canadian border on our way back to Alaska.  All I can figure is Miz Garmin II. had reverted to her second childhood -- like a loose toddler in a shopping mall.  Suddenly she had me driving out in fields, up mountainsides and along the bottoms of rivers -- often out of sight of the road.  I was pretty sure I was on an asphalt surface that would lead me home, but she wanted me elsewhere.  Without another road in sight and with the highway bending to the right, she'd suddenly blurt out "turn left."  If I didn't follow her commands, she'd repeatedly insist I turn left.  I began to think she wanted to do away with me, perhaps to find a better listener for a driver.

Miz Garmin II wanted to send me back and forth across this field and up the distant mountainsides along southern British Columbia's Crowsnest Highway

Had I followed her instructions, I would have driven through barbed wire fences, crashed into trees and drowned myself in the Fraser River.  She would show me driving on the far side of a lake on the left side of the road, then suddenly dart across the highway without even looking for oncoming traffic to send me up a cliff on the right side of the highway.  Our mutual trust was shattered.

Miz Garmin II must have thought our Mazda Tribute was equipped with water wings to run through this pond along British Columbia's Cariboo Highway.

She didn't even make an attempt to avoid these trees before routing us into this lake along central British Columbia's Yellowhead Highway.

In desperation, I pushed her button of last resort, "Restore Factory Settings."  Oh boy, was that a bad idea.  Then she wouldn't even tell me how far it was to my next destination and when I'd ask her to show me the nearest motel -- while I was parked in front of a Super 8 deep in the "wilds" of Canada, she'd suggest someplace in Washington state, over 200 miles away.

Finally, I had to do what Karen insists I always do.  I stopped listening -- just tuned her out or sometimes, when our relationship had reached that tipping point, shut her off.

Oh, Miz Garmin II, can we ever go back to how we used to relate?

              To play it "safe" I turned Miz Garmin II off so I could enjoy these aspens near Smithers, British Columbia.

Meanwhile Karen was spending her waning days at Four Mile Lake in northern Wisconsin -- getting ready for her long trip home.  Was this a final farewell?  Hopefully not!

Four Mile Lake neighbors are friendly and love Karen so she can wander through their manicured "yards" during daily walks.

            Wetlands such as this swampy area near Four Mile Lake are a little less inviting for casual morning strolls.

Perhaps the condition of this white birch leaf best reflected the wistful feelings in Karen's heart as she bid farewell to Four Mile Lake for the season.. It was time to begin her long trip home to Alaska. 

An Offer to Paint a Mural

The retired apple grower who ran the motel where I stayed in Washington's Okanagan Valley assured me he had the cheapest and quietest lodging in town.  I suspected he was right about quietest.  When I had looked over his only competition at the junction of the two highways that lead into Tonasket, a motorcycle pushed his hog to the limit as he tore up the hill next to that motel.  I took that as a omen and didn't even bother inquiring.

  My first view of Tonasket in

Washington's portion of the Okanagan Valley

The owner, Chris, turned over a bunch of wrinkled pages to see what my options included, scratched out a few of his previous scribbles, hummed and hawed a bit and announced he could fix me up.  Wow, I thought, a motel owner who doesn't use a computer or the Internet.  You're certainly not going to book a room here online.

It turned out Chris, who was born and raised in New York City and has a photo of himself finishing that famous marathon on his wall, has a taste for art.  Soon he was taking me into every empty room in his motel, proudly showing me murals on the concrete walls that had been painted in 1981 by one Don Harris.

When I showed interest, he took me into his apartment to show me paintings he had purchased in New York forty years ago.  The paintings showed a refined sense of taste -- painted by artists I could even find on the Internet under categories like, "what is this guy's art worth."  I showed Chris what I found on the internet and even he was impressed.

Before we were done, I showed Chris my latest plein air effort.  I didn't think he was impressed until he offered me the opportunity to paint a mural on the side of his motel.  I wonder if I should accept the offer.  I could see plenty of painting subjects in all directions from Tonasket.

While we were discussing art, a heavily tattooed guest came in to close a deal to sell Chris his cell phone.  In earlier discussions they had agreed to $50, but in their ongoing discussion, the seller (not Chris) negotiated down to $40.  I'd like to do business with him.  That night, as I ducked into my room after dinner, I noticed the door of the tattooed guy's room ajar with a recognizable scent wafting through the air.  Pot!  And here I thought all of Chris's rooms were non-smoking.

That night in room 24, using a key with a number something like 53187 ("you can't be too careful in case the key is lost," Chris told me) I got one of Karen's foot soakers. It seems that when I flushed the toilet, not all the water to refill the bowl went to it’s assigned location.  I dreaded telling Chris the news so I just wrapped a towel around the base of the toilet and wrote him a note -- after washing my foot -- sort of.  It seems Chris must have been concerned about guests burning themselves in hot water.  Such was not a concern in room 24.

Would I stay there again?  Of course -- although maybe not in room 24! You'd never collect these kind of memories at The Hilton.

Driving west from Sherman Pass, openings created by the 1988 White Mountain fire afford one their first glimpse of the Okanagan Valley.

Leaving the Colville National Forest, westbound travelers encounter farmland Farmland east of Tonasket, Washington.

While I explored parts of Tonasket as suggested by Chris, Karen -- with her cousin Connie -- savored memories of summers growing up on the shores of Four Mile Lake near Three Lakes, Wisconsin.

                The Groth family dock on the shores of Four Mile Lake.

A descendent of generations of chipmunks that Karen fed over many decades during summers at the Groth family cabin.

While Karen has been a surrogate mother for generations of rodents (squirrels and chipmunks), snowshoe hares lack interest in her offerings of peanuts and sunflower seeds.

A garter snake was as surprised by Karen as she was by it.  Interestingly, although northern Wisconsin has colder winters than much of coastal Alaska, and our northern-most state even has a few amphibians such as salamanders, frogs and toads, Alaska has no reptiles. 

Whiteout

I'm convinced I have a Guardian Angel.  I don't know where the Church stands on the existence of Guardian Angels, but with all the people that crowd this earth -- sending so many petitions to God -- I figure He must delegate.  Over the years I feel my Angel has guided me safely through many a situation that could have come out more than a little messy.

This white tail deer must also have a Guardian Angel in that it was more interested in a "lady friend" than me and bow and arrow deer hunting season was open.  Fortunately for him he had only come across a wandering plein air painter.

I encountered such an occasion during our fall road trip -- the day I drove from Plains, Montana to Sand Point, Idaho.  Idyllic plein air painting weather gave way to clouds and occasional drizzle throughout the day so, after one painting, I mostly explored and snapped a few photos.  As the day was about to be retired into the annals of history,  I could see the first rays of sun slice across distant mountainsides.  Ahead I could see a curve sparkling in that golden glow.

Let me digress.  Over just shy of 100,000 miles on the odometer, our 2001 Mazda Tribute's windshield has been struck by too many rocks and pitted by driving through blasts of windblown sand.  Then, heading south in British Columbia earlier in this odyssey, an 18-wheeler passed, liquid pouring from the rear of it's trailer and shloshing across our windshield,  I theorized his strange cargo consisted of melting ice although that seemed a bit odd in this age of the refrigerator.   Not so!  When I flicked on our wipers, the window just streaked with a bluish haze.  I added a squirt of windshield washer fluid.  It streaked.  Eventually I tried detergent.  It streaked although the window looked clear when dry.

Now, almost a month later, I braked before approaching that curve where a sun shower added itself to the mix.  As I hit the corner, the setting sun sat directly over the hood of our car.  I had a windshield covered with microscopic pits as well as larger rock strikes all reflecting the orb like a nest of prisms.  I had prisms from the raindrops.  I reflexively turned on the wipers to add the blue haze of the streaked windshield.

The result -- all I could see was a sheet of white directly in front of the car.  I could barely make out the hood and nothing beyond.  Meanwhile the road was curving sharply to the left and another driver tailgated me by half a car length -- maybe less.  Another car whizzed past in the opposite direction splashing more water in my face.  I never saw it until it was directly alongside of me.

Have you ever tried to steer a car around a bend looking at the center line through the side window.  That's what my Guardian Angel did.  Had a police car seen "us" weaving around that corner, "we" would have been pulled over as suspected drunk drivers

And then we were back in shadow, shaken and uttering prayers of thanks.  The car on my tail flew past and it was on to Sand Point.  That was the last I saw of the sun that day.  I didn't complain.

                                 I failed to see even a single ray of sun that day -- until that sun-bathed corner.

Meanwhile Karen was still at Northern Wisconsin's Four Mile Lake where she and her cousin, Connie Mutel, were reliving favorite memories.

One favorite for both of them is Vanishing Lake, actually more of a pond that is slowly diminishing in size as the surrounding bog crowds ever closer.  Brush and even trees along the edges grow on a floating mat.

Karen and Connie have hiked around Vanishing Lake so many times that I think they've worn their personal grove in the trail

                                      Well aged planks over a wetland portion of the Vanishing Lake Trail.

Of course Karen's brother, Peter Groth, had to take the girls for boat rides on Four Mile Lake as well as adjoining lakes in the Chain of Lakes.

Down the Clark Fork

My original road trip “sort of” destination was Glacier National Park or maybe even Yellowstone -- where any plein air paintings might interest somebody.  However, that was before the 2013 government shutdown.  Ultimately, I figure Congress had my welfare in mind since it gave me the chance to discover places like the South Fork of the Clearwater and Mr. Zoom’s bridge.  So, abandoning thoughts of sneaking into Glacier or Yellowstone Parks, I continued my “explore.”  What would I  find along Montana State Highway 200 paralleling the Clark Fork?

If Lewis and Clark had rear view mirrors on their canoes they might have witnessed a scene much like this along the Clark Fork.

The Clark Fork, eventually leads to the Columbia River, albeit a longer route than the Clearwater River which Lewis and Clark floated down.  I wonder why they didn’t stick with the Clark Fork instead of dragging all their pots and pans and spare socks over a pass to the Clearwater.  First, it is named after Meriwether Clark, himself, and second,  following that drainage they could have added British Columbia, Canada, to their list of new discoveries.  


                             In this stretch Lewis and Clark could have enjoyed a leisurely paddle to the west.
 
Perhaps it was because driving this route I encountered several hazards.  First a doe deer dashed with her fawn across the highway in an effort to boost my ego -- that is -- to demonstrate how wise I was to have our car brakes serviced before the trip.  Obviously they were lost because the “deer crossing” sign was sited 100 yards further down the highway.  Within minutes a turkey tried to offer itself up for Thanksgiving dinner.  Even closer -- my definition of turning on a dime has now been revised to the image of  a turkey charging head down like a National Football League fullback instantly reversing course as he was about to be tackled -- the tackler in this case being my careening car.  I should have checked for tail feathers in the grill.

The other hazard -- I had consumed too much coffee, Montana obviously doesn’t believe in rest rooms on their state highways and trees were scarce along this section of road.  In contrast barbed-wire fences abounded in profusion with every single tree situated on the other side.  At the point of desperation I found a side “road” with a sign announcing “land for sale.”  Ah ha, a place where I could slip through a gate.  I’m glad I waited because there, out of sight of the highway, I found a bonafide sod house -- abandoned, but still intact -- a fringe benefit of drinking too much coffee.

                          I can't help but think life was pretty depressing living in this windowless abode.

The next day another side road caught my attention.  What would I find along White Pine Creek Road?  Maybe I'd even discover White Pine Creek...

...or another painting subject:  "Waiting for Rain"   9 x 12 inches   Alkyd on Raymar Panel.  This was my last plein air painting of the trip as the hour arrived when I had to cover some miles in order to catch my ferry home to Alaska.

Another factor that persuaded me to put away the brushes -- I wasn't excited about painting in the rain such as I found along Montana's Bull River.

Meanwhile, Karen was bidding her possible final good bye to Four Mile Lake, a farewell that included scenes and treasures from her past.

                     Some residents of Wisconsin's Four Mile Lake neighborhood keep their forests manicured.  

With no way to bring "him" home, Karen had to leave her only stone sculpture behind.  Karen carved "Quiet Time" out of a rock during a high school art class.

                                                    And so, farewell to Karen's sculpture "Quiet Time."

Mr. Zoom

A rotting log-stringer bridge across the West Fork of Lolo Creek near Lolo Hot Springs, Montana, stopped my forward momentum.  Off the main highway, the sign said Road Use Restricted.  The condition of the bridge suggested -- disobey its admonitions and an errant driver might have the opportunity to test the aerodynamic attributes of their car.  I parked in the middle of the one lane road and set up my easel.  

                                                  The bridge across the West Fork of Lolo Creek

Taking a peanut butter and honey sandwich break from my painting, I sat on a decaying log delineating the side of the structure,.  There I relished a  handful of rays of sun that sneaked through the day’s offering of cloud formations.  It was then that I saw it -- a tiny black ant slowly searching in seemingly random directions for whatever tiny black ants search for in seemingly random directions.  Maybe it would lead me back to an ant hill for more action, but no, it stuck to it’s little sawdust covered arena, maybe twice the size of my computer screen in diameter.  Perhaps my friend had been assigned guard duty to keep strangers like me from invading it’s nearby home. 

OK, calling my friend “it “seems a bit impersonal so at this point I’ve decided to call "it" Mr. even though the vast majority of ants are sterile females.  I base my decision on the fact that male ants' contribution to colonies has been termed “not significant,” -- which from my untrained observers eye, seemed to be it's role in life.

Maybe my new “friend” would like a treat.  I broke off a honey-covered crumb and quietly placed it within the perimeter of the ant’s territory.  By what seemed like pure chance it’s aimless wandering eventually led to my offering.  Lunch!  Soon, with a full “belly,” the ant departed.  However, its speed changed from that of the proverbial tortoise to that of the hare.  Newly named Mr. Zoom raced around like a highly caffeinated ant -- still within the confines of its restricted territory, still just as aimlessly, but now with heightened passion.  I returned to my painting satisfied that I had done something to make at least one newly energized denizen of this world a little more joyful that day.

   Montana Wetland  9 x 12 inches  Alkyd on Raymar Panel   Mr. Zoom's view if he could get on top of the his bridge.

Mr. Zoom’s bridge had interrupted my travels as I headed east to overnight in Missoula, a large city in which I really didn’t want to stay.  Just beyond the bridge, a sign along the road advertising The Lodge at Lolo Hot Springs suggested reasonable rates.  I took the bait and wasn’t sorry.  After checking out with a belly full of waffles the next day, I headed back to the bridge, for more painting until, bidding a fond farewell to Mr. Zoom, I  resumed my travels towards Missoula.  Since I had backtracked to Mr. Zoom’s bridge, one “obstacle” remained -- passing, once again, that sign suggesting reasonable rates at Lolo Hot Springs. 

Lolo Hot Springs -- Life was soooo peaceful there.  The food at the restaurant sooooo good.  Missoula has traffic.  I don’t thrive on crowded roads.  OK -- one more night.  I checked in again and LuAnn, the manager did the unthinkable.  Unbeknownst to me,  the resort has a reduced rate for multiple night stays.  I had already checked out so LuAnn would naturally charge me the full rate for the second night.  But no, that sweet lady gave me the reduced rate for the return visit.  You can’t beat that level of integrity.  If you’re ever in the area, check out The Lodge at Lolo Hot Springs.   LuAnn will even lend you a swimming suit if you want to soak in the hot springs.

Another side road near Lolo Hot Springs that really tempted me to stop and paint.  Ultimately I opted, instead, to hone in on a nearby meadow,

West Fork   9 x 12 inches   Alkyd on Raymar Panel   I completed this painting from the shoulder of US 12 not far from Lolo Hot Springs.

                                                       Back-lit forest along the Idaho side of US 12

Meanwhile Karen and her cousin, Connie, had driven north to Wisconsin's Four Mile Lake for what may possibly be Karen's farewell to an area that has had such a profound influence on her life.  

                                      Karen and her brother, Peter Groth on Peter's Four Mile Lake dock.

Four Mile Lake Road has led Karen to the family "cottage" and now Peter and Mary Ann Groths' home since she was an elementary school-aged girl.

Of course Karen continued her love affair with rodents at Four mile Lake -- here the latest family member of generations of red squirrel friends she had known since the early 1950s.