‘I don't camp’ III

Kathy’s Hylton lumbered northward through central Oregon and crossed the Columbia River into Washington. It is such beautiful country this time of year, wet with sudden downpours, rivers flooded, green mountains and open meadows with deer and other wild life freely wandering about.

It is not surprising that many Californians drift north, but there is little work, and spring and summer hide the difficult winters which lay in wait.

We take the old roads; the ones off the beaten path. Small towns which had once seen the vigor of life, now wait for another business to close its door.

The lumber industry has made a small comeback and one can tell it has made a difference, but most of the lumber is being shipped overseas to China and the Far East, whole, not milled in the towns which used to employ thousands in the mills.

The focus of our journey was the little town of Curlew, Washington, only 20 miles from the Canadian border situated on the Kettle River. More than 20 people who spent their winters in Mexico had been invited to meet at a ranch home in this northern wilderness for four days of river floating and fun.

Kathy’s Hylton was holding up well, considering the strain, however, as it went through Yakima, Washington a metallic sound under the ’91 motorhome didn’t sound right and we pulled into a R.V. repair shop. We found out the differential joints (three of them) needed replacing because they had run out of lubricant in 20 years.

We felt very lucky as the repair was done in less than two hours and the labor and parts was only $305. A nice little state park close to town provided full hook-ups for $32. There was no ranger station just self-service putting the payment in an envelope which was picked up by a caretaker.

How simple, we thought, and wondered why California was so insistent on shutting down so many of our local small state parks when they could have been run the same way, on the honor system. 

Central Washington is a great agricultural area and grows wine grapes as well as field crops, apples, pears and cherries. The rivers are plump with fish and we bought a license just in case one of them wanted to jump on our line. 

Little towns like Brewster are situated right on the Columbia River and offer excellent fishing as well as another night’s camping. The standard price seemed to be around $30 for full hook-ups. Once again the maintenance was minimal and a city worker came around once a day to collect the fee. 

We were warned that there would be no grocery stores of any size within a half day’s drive from Curlew and we stocked up for the four day get-together. Meals were shared by the group, usually four members to a meal, either breakfast or dinner; with lunch on your own.

We were the first to arrive at the ranch home and got a prime spot for our Hylton. As if the weather gods were beckoned the cloudy skies disappeared and the sun replaced them. The nights, however, were in the fifties and a comforter was welcome to keep warm. 

Mosquito repellent was a must as soon as we opened the RV door the unwanted guests flew inside. We sprayed around the door and the base of the motorhome as well as our arms and legs. These bugs were vicious. 

Both Friday and Saturday we spent on the river, floating down from almost the Canadian border and then past the ranch home to the nearest town. We weren’t alone. This was an annual occurrence in which lots of locals participated. This valley and its wildlife were amazing, deer, an eagle flying overhead, fish in the river and not a care in the world.

Too soon this trip ended and the group disappeared back to Canada, Idaho, Washington, Oregon, California and even Arizona; where ever they came from. 

We needed to get back home too, however we opted for the slow road off the beaten track heading south on Highway 21 and then 395. 

It was a long winding route but one where the edges of the eye had to widen just to take in the panorama. We saw wide, tree lined valleys with lazy rivers flowing through them. There seemed to imaginary Indian tribes standing on the hills that overlooked us and we traveled wagon train routes where settlers had first come into this beautiful country. 

The gold that these people were looking for was not always in the ground but in the land where they settled.

Kathy’s Hylton was now having problems or an unknown sort. She stalled twice and we had to call a tow truck, but when the truck arrived she started up again and limped to the garage for repairs. We were told it was the altitude, use high test gas or an octane booster.

She made it across the California border to Redding and terrible sounds were emanating from the engine. A garage told the disastrous story of a transmission with a broken seal leaking its life on the roadway.

Alast the Hylton never made it home and is now in a rest home for aged motorhomes in Redding. We returned by rental car to take up the local battle of debt once more.