Oregon

It still rains in Oregon. Somehow the rain didn’t know to stop at the Columbia River. This did help contribute to the waterfalls we saw, however. Melanoma Falls? Multigrain Falls? Something like that. I remember Bill Bryson lambasting his countrymen for not wandering far from the car at nature’s big events like those we were seeing. Sure the fatties made it half way up the paved trail, perhaps 500 feet from the parking lot, well done, good effort. The rest was a peaceful jaunt for Emma and I through empty forest, the only company was my singing due to paranoia of black bears.

With the rain continuing to soak our souls and the van starting to smell like wet dog we decided to head to Portland for some civilisation. Air B&B set us up with a nice woman we never met who left her back door open for us to be greeted by her yapping dogs. Try doing that in London without losing your telly. Or dogs. 

Portland immediately hit a sweet spot with us. Emma likes taking unnecessary pictures of flowers so the abundance of roses in everyone’s gardens gave her something to do whilst I revelled in the local brewery scene. In between we popped into Powell's book shop (a really cool establishment) to pick up a book on birds and a book on trees. The amount of times we’ve seen bird or tree and wondered what we were looking at sure annoyed me, so these guide books were great. At the time of writing I’ve seen vultures, bald eagles, hummingbirds, woodpeckers, quails, a variety of hawks, eagles and falcons and more sea birds than necessary. Most of which would have been difficult to identify without these guides. We now know the difference between a Sequoia and a Redwood, a Ponderosa Pine and a Douglas Fir. Knowing about the flora and fauna has definitely added to the richness of the experience.  

Many Deschutes Brewery beer floats later we spent the evening at a Thai restaurant called Pok Pok, unlike any Thai restaurant we’d ever been to. They served Asian-food stall fusion cuisine that burned the roof off our mouth and set fire to our souls at the same time. Excellent and highly recommended, even though the locals at the next table made fun of us by toasting each other regularly in a faux English accent “CHEERS MATE”. Well cheers mate to you because these spicy wings were fucking awesome. Full and tipsy we retired to our bed and slept very well outside of the van. The only negative experience of Portland came when a gentleman asked me if my Doc Martens meant I was a redneck or a racist. I didn’t have time to comment as he moved on to Emma informing her that she was “Daddy’s little squirt”. Again before I had time to comment he moved on the stop the traffic and shake the hand of a driver of a car he liked. I think I could take solace in the fact that this man was either drunk or deranged but it did make me feel self-conscious of my DM’s. Then I saw a DM store and decided he was mental.

On returning to Security the next morning we realised that we might as well have just slept in the van on the street and saved a load of money. Taking that on board we departed for the rest of the Oregon coast. First stop was the Tillamook cheese factory. It was a factory. A factory which made cheese. That was it. Don’t bother.

Cape Lookout provided our first stop on the coast. We went for a run on the wild beach as the sun had come out. All the way up we encountered waterfalls pouring from great cliffs onto the beach below. It was truly the epitome of the Oregon coast and what we had come looking for. We both loved it. Further down the coast at Washburne State Beach we went rock pooling, marvelling in the relatively disgusting contents of the pools. Sea urchins the size of your head crammed like open sores into the smallest puddles. Beautiful and yet sickening at the same time. Maybe it was just me.

We attempted to go up to Crater Lake, a long drive simply to attempt but we arrived late so decamped down in a valley where snow began to fall. Sleeping in absolute silence in a forest with a dusting of snow is both magical and creepy but one which we both savoured. The next morning I tried to drive us up to Crater Lake but the snow was falling heavily and the last thing I wanted was to slide all over a mountain road. So reluctantly we headed south and on to a town Emma fancied visiting called Ashland.

Ashland is famed for its Shakespearian theatre which the town doesn’t let you forget. The Best Western is even themed as some Tudor hotel. Coming from England it was all a bit absurd but the town was lovely nonetheless. Plus they had a brew pub I wanted to try called the Cauldron. Here I drank too fast and befriended a local – Stefan. He knew where London was, had actually left America before to visit Australia and used to work in a brewery so I immediately liked him. He took us to play pool in some other bar whilst I tried to inform him of the joys of snooker. Try telling a snooker fan about snooker and he will be bored. Try telling an American about snooker and the emotion will be ten-fold. He listened politely though whilst beating me at pool and letting me buy him drinks. Fucking gentleman. It was a Sunday night but people were still out and still drinking. One peculiar couple took a shine to us. The man looked like Michael Moore and largely served to tell his wife to shut up and force me to drink rum and orange juice. His wife largely served to inform me of the ills of the mass media and then turned to Emma to discuss her magical crystal worth $35,000. Emma informed me that they were both off their faces on something other than booze. I hadn’t noticed on account of being off my face on booze. I had a brilliant night and slept on the motel room floor apparently at my own insistence. We agreed we’d go back to Crater Lake via Ashland on our way back up north.

We departed Ashland for the Redwoods of Northern California. Not before the heavens opened at the moment our wipers broke on Highway 1. Driving down winding roads with amorous drivers (trying to get their cars to kiss your car) on one side and a cliff face on the other is challenging at the best of times but driving for even a short distance without wipers is horrific. An hour of standing in the rain and I had them fixed again but the battery started to give way again - heart sinking time! We settled to camp as the only visitors at a campsite in the Redwoods. Shortly afterwards we’d run out of oil. Knowing that this was the perfect way to destroy an engine I drive the 20 odd miles to the next town in California at 15 miles per hour. A little wooden shack sold me their last litre of oil which, when poured into the engine, steamed/smoked like a dying ember. It was nowhere near full but it would carry us to the next shop. It’s like Security wanted to die but we wouldn’t let it. Not yet old boy.

Crossing over "Bridge of the Gods" into Oregon.

Horsetail Falls.

Multnomah Falls.

Walking the trail parallel to the Columbia River.

Reading time in the van.

Powell's book store - could have stayed for hours.

Working our way through the sample trays at Deschutes Brewery.

Pretty decorations in our lovely Air BnB room.

"Pancake partayyyy" as said by our waitress in Genie's.

Portland is called "The City of Roses" for a reason.

Spotting different types of sea birds.

Cannon Beach.

Enjoying the sunshine in Oregon at last!

Stunning views driving on the Oregon Coast.

Luke having fun on his own.

Cwtching up whilst the chef prepares dinner.

Fresh fish for dinner.

Devil's Punchbowl.

I spy...rain.

Colourful boys swinging on the trees.

Luke trying to save a log.

Empty beaches.

Seaweeeeeed.

Rock pooling.

Sea urchins the size of your head.

Luke being a little boy in the search of crabs.

Morning tea in the sun.

Surfs up!

Driving towards Crater Lake...and we find snow.

Bloody freezing up here.

Luke playing pool with his new best friend...Stefan.

Washington

Our first foray across the border in the US stalled literally at the border. Ordered to turn off our engine whilst talking to the border security official we were unable to turn it back on when told to park up and go inside the office. Battery problems continued we realised. Our friends at Canadian Tire charged the battery which sent us on our way but the following day it was drained again – something was clearly wrong. After adopting the conspicuously innocent smiles of people with nothing to hide we convinced the second border official to allow us into the country despite not having return flights booked.  He questioned whether we had jobs waiting for us when we got home – Emma said she had an offer to return to her old job which was true but she had turned it down – I said I didn’t have anything which was definitely true. “What reason do you have to returning to the UK then?” he asked me. Well, considering I had just told him that Emma was going back to work in the UK I felt it prudent to inform him that I wanted to live with my wife and would find that difficult if I was working illegally picking fruit in the US. He let us in.

After another stop at an auto-parts store for a new battery and after Emma ‘honked for peace’ in Bellingham we set off into the wilderness of the North Cascade Mountains. Arriving after dark we pulled into an area reserved for camping next to Baker Lake. The rain became absolutely relentless – part of the romance of sleeping in a campervan has to be the sound of rain on the roof but I was concerned that we hadn’t purchased an inflatable van opting for the standard land-only model. The rain continued in the morning and would continue for almost the entirety of our visit to Washington and Oregon. No stranger to rain I didn’t mind this at first but towards the south of Oregon I could swear that my soul was wet. We headed into Seattle the next day, heavens still open. Dragging a camper into a city does limit you a little. We opted to stay at a B&B on the outskirts and bus into the centre. The B&B was less B&B and more ‘this is my spare room’. It was fine though and did the trick. The van stalled again as we tried to squeeze the van up the incredibly steep driveway. Unfortunately we were half on the drive, half on the narrow road and pretty much ruled out two way traffic. The jump starter didn’t help us either – I hadn’t had time to fully charge it before leaving so it just couldn’t get us going. Looking like a beached whale my heart started to pound a little and wasn’t assisted by the little Chinese man staring at us out the window. He obviously didn’t fancy helping. Rather fortunately through the cloud of stress I recalled that we had a second ‘house’ battery in the back of the van for powering the lights and features of the van. I disconnected this and daisy-chained it to the power pack and starter battery and managed to get us going. The years I had spent jump starting and fooling around with problematic motorcycles had paid off and we got the van up the slope, much to the nonchalance of our Chinese observer.

I think it was the stress of the van problems but Seattle kind of washed over me. We saw Pikes Place market which, by all accounts, is my idea of hell but I was determined to let Emma enjoy it. I’ve never quite understood the appeal of walking round market places with no intention of buying something. To me it is like browsing the frozen food section at Tesco, utterly depressing. To add to this there are a thousand tourists seemingly attempting to wear the same clothes as you, such is their proximity. A respite was found in Pikes Brew Pub who managed to sooth my anxieties with a float of taster beers, most of which were very enjoyable. A short visit to a whiskey bar to establish my adoration for a certain Michter’s Bourbon and a pop of the head into Shorty’s dive bar finished our evening of drinking. Back to the bus stop we went but not before buying two of the most disgusting microwaved burritos from 7-eleven. They were truly foul and for that reason also hilarious. Sure good food is great but I find the serving of diarrhoea to be incredibly amusing, even if Emma wasn’t so pleased. She still finished it though.

Pushing on from Seattle we visited Mt Rainier – an epic experience – before breaking down again just after nightfall on the edge of Yakima, a nothing town in the middle of nowhere. After signing up to AAA, being towed to a garage and spending the night locked in a yard my ‘vanxiety’ was well and truly back. A further small fortune spent the following morning we drove through the rather arid countryside past a town called Goldendale whose weather provided a delightful respite from the rain. Then we broke down again. Oh god I began to love sitting by the side of the road. We called the AAA who informed us it would be a good 3 hours before our rescue. I had tried jumping the van but to no avail. Giving it another hour I managed to get it going and we made our own way to Goldendale Exhaust, a delightful family run garage in the middle of wherethefuckamI, Washington. At least these guys seemed to actually give a shit. They replaced the alternator and the starter motor which explained why we kept losing power and couldn’t start it with 3 batteries. Having pieced the puzzle together I realised that the van just didn’t generate enough electricity to power anything but the basic electrics of the van. This meant no wipers, no fans and no lights. Later on I’d wire the house battery into the engine loop so we could power these things when we needed to but ultimately we were on crutches. I didn’t care though, the fact I knew what was wrong and what I had to do to get us moving took a weight off my mind. Whilst the guys at Goldendale Exhaust had their hands in our van I took to quizzing their young daughter about local life. Aged around 13 she had never heard of London, England or perhaps even Europe. She hung out at her grandma’s on holidays such as today (spring break) when she wasn’t at the garage. I asked about her friends and she insisted she had some but there seemed to be very few other people here of her age. Her diamante cowgirl boots and belt were an indicator that she knew exactly who she was and wanted to be and you could practically smell the pride when she showed me her first place quad bike trophy sitting next to her brother’s second place trophy. We briefly talked about guns and her related talents there but a glare from her mother who was working the reception desk told me that this was no place to question the merits and faults of the second amendment.

We drove down towards the Columbia River Gorge and spent the night at a free ‘campsite’, campsite being the chosen word to describe the forest turning circle in the middle of nowhere. That night we managed to kill a mouse we had named Chad-Allen who was tearing up our insulation. God rest his soul.

The next day we would cross the Bridge of the Gods and into Oregon. We spent a total of 5 days in Washington, not nearly enough to experience the state as we wanted to but we would visit it again on our way back north when, hopefully, the sun would be shining more often.

Enjoying the view from the Pacific Coast Highway.

Emma trying her first ever oyster, and yes it was delicious.

Colourful tulips lining the halls of Pike Market, Seattle.

Spot the happy apple.

Reflections in Seattle's high rises.

Playing Pinball at Shorty's, Seattle.

Lunch break at Mount Rainier.

Apparently lucky to see the top of the mountain which is usually covered by cloud.

The Van from Van

Four movies is all the flight from Gatwick to Vancouver took. Four movies and a large portion of time with my head in Emma’s lap feeling extraordinarily light headed and sick. Perhaps being a budget airline meant that Air Transat scrimped on the cabin pressurisation system, perhaps I’m just a pussy but either way it was a crap way to start the trip. Starting the trip – when does a trip actually start? This is something Emma and I debated in the run up to our departure. Perhaps it started the moment we quit work, the moment we closed the flat door for the last time on leaving Highgate or the moment we left our belongings in Swansea and headed for Gatwick.  I had spent the morning before our departure from Swansea bombing it around the Gower on my motorbike. Knowing I wasn’t going to get to ride it for 5 months made the experience exhilarating. That and the roads in the Welsh countryside are far superior for riding a café racer around at breakneck speeds than the roads of London. Maybe the joy I experienced now was because it was the start of the journey?  I wasn’t sure about any of these moments truly signifying the start of the trip, namely because we had one big job to do before we could actually set off on our adventure – finding a van*. 

Flying high over the Rocky Mountains.

Entering the totem pole infested arrivals hall of Vancouver International Airport I felt nauseous from anxiety about finding a van. Perhaps it was more the aforementioned lack of oxygen or the trepidation of arriving in the country without a return flight, I’m not sure but I was certain the trip hadn’t started yet.

Anita, Emma’s family friend, came and met us at the airport. She kindly ferried us to her home in North Vancouver where we would base ourselves for a couple of days whilst we found our feet. The next morning we set out to the local insurance brokers to confirm that our particulars were in order before we spent loads of money on a vehicle. Everything seeming in order we set out for Dan’s Mechanical, apparently the only RV dealership in the city of Vancouver. Prior to us leaving I took a quick look on Craigslist for any motorhomes for sale in the Vancouver area. I noticed an advert for a ridiculous looking off-white ’78 Dodge campervan with red and yellow styling and the words SECURITY emblazoned across the back, front and sides of the vehicle. I popped an email across to the owner thinking we could come back to that if we didn’t see anything we liked at Dan’s.

Dan. Dan of Dan’s Mechanical. Dan whose vehicles I pondered over for months in the run up to starting our trip. Dan the miserably obese proprietor of the shadiest establishment since Trotter’s Independent Traders. It was raining that day so Dan was loathe to leave his office and show us around the vehicles. I say office, I mean room full of shit with computer in the corner. Initially I couldn’t tell whether he was joking about not wanting to show us around but I quickly came to realise that Dan didn’t do humour, Dan did broken vehicles that even the trashiest of trailer trash wouldn’t accommodate. 

Not wishing to give our hard earned money to someone who didn’t actually want it we left Dan’s and went to stand outside a Starbucks so as to use their free wifi. Things didn’t look great at that point. We had hoped for the security of purchasing a van from a dealership but there were no other dealers within 100 miles that we knew of. A ding from my phone told me I had an email back from the owner of the security van. She was free this evening if we fancied a look. With no other options we trekked over to Kitsilano on the south side of Vancouver. Both Emma and I fell in love with the security van at first sight. After an extensive tour of the vehicle by Anika we whopped out a wad of notes and wrapped up the deal there and then. After a tedious hour in the insurance brokers down the road we had our very own security van. The Security name apparently stems from the company which used to do the camper conversions back in the 70’s and nothing to do with any kind of private army, which is a shame. 

Our new baby called Security.

That 70s toffee coloured interior.

Home for the next few months.

Emma drove us back to Anita’s after we had driven the wrong way down the road and the battery had died on us. Great start. Anika came to the rescue and jumped us to get us on our way but not before offering to pay for a new battery. The first thing we would do the next day would be to get the van a full inspection and stock up on necessities for the trip.

The friendly folks at Canadian Tire did their best to take $850 of my money but we managed to peg that down to $200 after I cut through the bull shit. The van was fine they said so after an oil change and the purchase of a jump starter and a steering wheel lock (could double as a sort of baton for fighting bears I thought) we were set.

*Van noun – home on four wheels, preferably with an engine and somewhere to piss.