The Da Vinci Crud to Fire Mountain to Partial Vancouver

The Da Vinci Code
A few days before I set Boone in my rearview mirror I had my bike in the Honda Dealership to check fluids and get a North Carolina inspection. Part of the inspection process is to check the tires and if they are not above a certain tread level then they do not pass. My rear tire needed replacing and the front tire was projected to have something less than a thousand miles left on it.

6500 miles later Brian and I pulled into Fortuna, CA and I forked over 125 bucks to replace my front tire. Up until that point we hadn’t experienced rain en-route and so I wasn’t worried too much about traction. But we were breaking into areas that received rain regularly and I didn’t have faith in the gripping abilities of a bald tire in turn on slick pavement.

On our way into town we had passed a theater. The marque boasted the Da Vinci Code and we decided that we’d like to give it a shot. It was opening day. Thanks to the small town the crowds were limited. We settled into our seats and waited for the two hours of tripe that were sure to follow.

What irritated us the most wasn’t the factlessness of the story but the manner in which the movie was executed. Tom Hanks was cardboard, the dialogue was weak and contrived...it was painful. I remember sitting there in the first 10 minutes and thinking to myself, “I’ve read the book so I know there are some good parts coming up...so this has to get better...I hope it gets better.” Brian and I would look at each other and roll our eyes, not at the content of the message but at the atrocious acting.

The film will make the bucks based off of the hype alone, but once people step out of the theater and are greeted by their interested friends the recommendations to see the film will be few and far between. Those Christians that were freaking out have nothing to fear. All they need to do is do a little bit of reading and digging for the message and then a grounded sense of good filmmaking to counter this cultural phenomenon.

Mosquitoes
I grew up looking forward to every summer when my family visited my Mom’s parents at their summer home in Northern Minnesota. That side of the family inherited a summer boy’s camp from its patriarch, Otto Endres, my great-grandfather. I eventually became a camper there and would then stay beyond the camp sessions to enjoy family gatherings and fun times with the equipment of the camp.

What always presented a challenge for me was to resist the urge to scratch the inflictions caused by the innumerable mosquitoes that loved to feast on our flesh. Invariably each year my arms and legs looked like battle zones.

I say all of that to say this: I know mosquitoes. So when I say that our campsite in Astoria, OR possessed the largest and most ferocious demons of the air (mosquitoes) there is weight to my comments. I really have never seen anything like it. Their bite was incredible. Thankfully the buggers were slower and so swatting them out of the air or reducing their 3-D qualities with a quick slap of the hand proved to be easy. But there were so many that one would tire themselves in the space of five minutes. Brian produced some bug repellant that worked to the extent that they no longer felt compelled to bite but the swarms would dart in and out still trying to find a suitable lunch spot. So still they annoyed.

Astoria is the top left corner of Oregon.

Mount St. Helens
It was just shy of closing time when we pulled into the handsome visitor center located at a distance from the famous active volcano. After a quick scan of the inside and realizing that we didn’t have time to see what we wanted in the five minutes until close we decided to head to our campsite which was just down the road and come back in the morning.

Brian had planned our trip pretty detailed-like and had used the bottomless resources online to locate and provide directions for each of our campsites along the way. He had printed out the directions and maps for each day and put them in a three ring binder. After each day was finished we’d tear out the pages and prepare for the next day. It was very convenient and helpful and made our trip flow quite smoothly.

So following the instructions we found our campsite without any hitches. Those were reserved for the actual campsite. It was quaintly nestled on the shores of Spirit Lake which is in view of the volcano but not on the cloudy day in which we arrived. Not a soul was present. There were a few campsites designated and numerous trailer homes and an office with a shrill yapping dog but not a human could be found. It was actually kind of eerie. I looked at Brian with deliberate doubt written on my face. He saw it and hopping on our bikes we quickly departed.

We had something similar a few days earlier when we arrived at a campsite that contained absolutely zero tenants except for ourselves. There was a heavy fog moving in from the ocean which was just a few hundred yards west and 150 feet down from us. It pressed in with great speed and just brushed the points of the sleepy pine trees that were thickly scattered throughout the campsite. From our vantage point on the ground sitting around a roaring fire which was fueled by piles of free wood it appeared as though the trees were endlessly tall as they simply disappeared into the mist. There was a sense of creepiness at being the only people there and it was that feeling that compelled us to flee from the campsite with the shrill dog.

A state park was situated adjacent to the visitor center and it had many vacancies desiring occupation. We were happy to oblige. Around 6:30pm it began to rain. Bummer. The only place to be dry was within the confines of our tents. I enjoy my tent. It is perfect for what I need; it is light, packs up small, and it is just big enough to comfortably fit all of my gear and leave room for me. But it isn’t a place to ‘hang out’. That is now what we found ourselves having to do.

There was plenty of light left in the day so we set about keeping ourselves amused. Reading, napping, etc. I had my computer with me so I set about working on my trip log. I haven’t reduced myself to calling it my ‘plog’ yet and I don’t suspect that that ‘yet’ shall ever be fulfilled.

15 hours after crawling into our tents it finally ceased to rain. I slept quite well and actually left my tent before the rain quit as I had ignored a certain call for far too long and the caller was getting impatient. No it wasn’t my cellphone ringing.

We were possessors of thoroughly soaked equipment and thought as much as we rolled up our tents and stuffed our sleeping bags into their compression sacks. Whatever was in the tent escaped moisture intrusion but the droplets falling from the trees succeeded in doing during wrap up what they couldn’t do during the evening hours. It really didn’t matter though. We were going to be staying with my Dad’s brother and his wife, Uncle Wesley and Aunt Johnena at their home in Spanaway, WA. Showers, laundry and such were just around the corner. But first we had to find out what kind of racket was being run over at the visitor center.

It was a racket alright. Actually, it was one of the nicer visitor centers managed by any form of government that I have been to. Modern and clean architecture, comprehensive and tasteful display of information and several films that sought to take the viewer down a path of utter fear and loathing at the thought of living in the crosshairs, and it is the crosshairs, of a series of vengeful ‘fire mountains’, Mt. Saint Helens, of course, being one of those.

We were geared up to actually head over and see the mountain and the other visitor center at its base but learned that it is a 45 mile ride and the chances of there being a break big enough in the low lying clouds to see the crater were slim to none. We decided to eat the extra cost it took the see both centers and hit the road.

Spanaway, WA is a nice town south of Seattle and is reached by taking Interstate 5 up from near Mount St. Helens through a series of rainstorms and a network of other smaller state highways. Up until this moment we really didn’t know what wet was. The comfort of our family’s home was more than welcomed and our reunion was most enjoyable.

It had been four years since our last gathering with this branch of the Drake family and there was much to catch up on. My cousin Johnena is recently engaged and left the next morning to visit her fiancee. She is number two of twelve grandchildren, Brian being number one and me being number three. I was able to show my slideshow from Sudan and talk about my experiences there which I always am eager to do.

Overall it was a good visit and bidding farewell until the wedding date we departed mid morning after one night.

Seattle
The fifty miles from Spanaway to Seattle pass by quickly. It is a nice drive when it is dry. Too bad we didn’t experience it dry. Getting rained on isn’t that bad. I’ve got my leather jacket and pants which keep me well taken care of during a downpour. What gets difficult is being stuck behind other traffic. The entire freeway becomes a misty cloud and on top of complete immersion you have severely reduced visibility. Riding a two wheeled machine in such conditions taxes you, mentally and physically. The whole time you are expecting that one of the tires will hydroplane and you will slide down to a watery death. Wiping out probably wouldn’t actually kill you, it would be more likely that the drivers behind you wouldn’t be able to see you and would only realize their mistake as their otherwise smooth ride would abruptly take on a crunching bump. It would all be over in a matter of seconds. Still those thoughts crossed my mind. So I purposed not to wipe out. I’m writing this report so neither I nor Brian experienced such misfortune.

Our cousins Kelsey and Caitlin live in Seattle and so we stopped for lunch together. They are the daughters of Brian and Joanne Endres, Brian being my mother’s cousin. We’ve been close to them growing up as both of our families spent considerable time up at Camp Chippewa in Northern Minnesota. Camp Chippewa was founded by my great-grandfather for boys who need a place to experience nature and encounter themselves whilst in the midst of great adventure. After the camp sessions the rest of the family would come and enjoy each other’s company and the beauty that is readily available up there.

It had been a few years since either Brian or I had spent time with Kelsey or Caitlin and the lunch we had was a great time to catch up. That night we then traveled up the coast a bit to Anacortes where we caught a ferry which took us over to the San Juan Islands where Brian and Joanne recently acquired a house and are currently living.

I’ve been around. I’ve seen beautiful things. I’ve been in places where the beauty is so intense that words are folly. The San Juan Islands are one of those places where I am so taken by its appearance that I am speechless. It is so pleasing. Of the many islands San Juan island is the largest and we were on the ferry to Friday Harbor. Aunt Joanne and Becky (her daughter) met us as we roared off the ferry and led us back to their ‘Walden’. They even live on a road called ‘Wold Road’. Sounds similar.

It is a slice of heaven. Quiet. Serene. Beautiful. They’ve got a small house that is perfect for what they need and it is surrounded on one side by a tall deer fence to protect the vegetable garden. Behind the house about 30 yards are three green bee hives full of activity and promise of sweet honey. They’ve got five acres and they are situated in the bottom of a large valley which serves as home to other farms, bed and breakfasts and other quaint homesteads.

There is also a shop building on their property where they have set up a quality ping-pong table and the home theater. Attached to that building is the ‘boat house’ where their three sea-kayaks rest between voyages. My brother and I were seriously impressed by this entire place and it was with regret that we left the next day. I consoled myself with the thought that after 5 days in Vancouver I would take up the offer to return and stay for a while.

Vancouver
Having lived and traveled Interstate-5 for the 16 years we lived in California I was only ever exposed to the sections that commute from LA down to San Diego and in between. It is mostly pretty ugly. Construction everywhere, bland hills, ugly buildings, etc. I knew that it extends all the way up to Canada but I had no idea that it could actually be considered pleasant to the eyes. The hour and 20 minutes it takes from Anacortes to the border is one of the more beautiful interstate highway sections in the United States. Lush and vibrant farmland lies all around and in the East massive snow-capped Mount Baker dominates the horizon. On our way up to the border we could not see it because of a devilish looking storm system was piling up against that mountain range and spewing its venom on the earth. For several minutes the highway pointed right at it and I was thinking, as I’m sure Brian was, that we were about to be plunged into that churning froth.

At the last moment the road took a turn to the northwest and we barely brushed the outskirts, getting a slight soaking. I have never seen such dark and evil looking clouds. It was during late afternoon which around here is usually still quite bright but the thickness and heaviness of the clouds blocked all light from penetrating. Truly amazing. On top of that display of natural power the colors were made all the more rich because of the eerie lighting and overload of rain.

By the time we snaked through some mountains and arrived at the border checkpoint we were dried out and the sun was shining brightly. Canadian Border Patrol didn’t bother us much and soon we were on our way up the Canadian version of I-5, Highway 99.

Canada is a stunning country. When I was younger and going to the boy’s camp my great-grandfather started I took part in the canoe trips that we took up into the Canadian shield. The trips were at least a week and they were excursions into complete wilderness. You can imagine how much trips like that would shape a young boy and give him a confidence in himself, especially after he carried a canoe all by his lonesome on his shoulders for the ¾ of a mile that most portages between lakes comprised of.

All of my experience in Canada was in the province of Manitoba and I had never seen the other parts of the country which I have now found to be breathtaking as well. Even with cities and people the surrounding area overwhelms the man-made objects and dominates the horizon every-which-way.

Vancouver is plopped on a large bay and has an active shipping port. Huge cranes loom over the water to unload the gargantuan tankers and container ships that cruise on in. Just north of the city across the water is a mountain range that has some snow on it and at night you can see the ski resorts lights. Brian was startled the first evening because he forgot about the mountain and was suddenly confronted by the lights. He is not a believer in the paranormal but for just a split second there was some doubt...oh, right, the ski resort.

More on Vancouver later...