Archive for the ‘road trip!’ Category

 

What happened to Frenchglen? I recall passing through fifteen years ago to find an oasis in the desert: enchantingly upscale accommodations; a country store tastefully merchandised with fine handmade gifts and locally grown produce and cheeses; espresso. Now, the Mercantile, once beamed directly from Marin County, squats forlornly behind the Iron Curtain with its half-empty shelves of dirty gourds and stale-looking cracker boxes. And the hotel? No longer on my short list of places to honeymoon.

 

What goggles was I wearing? Was I infatuated at the time, with either someone or my new Oregon home? Was I parched from the cultural drought that is the drive from Reno through Winnemucca? Or has Frenchglen, like everywhere, fallen on hard times? (Why am I writing like Carrie Bradshaw?)

 

While the town of Frenchglen no longer holds any magic, the surrounding area still does. Returning to southeastern Oregon years later with a different rig and crew would have been a harsh letdown except for the enduring beauty of the untouched landscape…which never changes.

 

I’ll go out on a limb: the campground at Page Springs Recreation Site—a BLM property on the Steens Mountain Loop—is possibly the most beautiful we’ve overnighted in. (Ralph: “You’re not going to blog and tell everyone about this, are you?”) (Oops.) It has no hookups, (water and johns, though), feels remote yet is exquisitely groomed, and the flora and fauna are among the Creator’s finest work. Near the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, the area draws hawks, herons, magpies and binocular-toting birdwatchers; the Donner and Blitzen rivers (guess what? not named for the reindeer) attract wading flyfishermen. Deer and coyote roam freely, like pets. The surrounding Steens aren’t actually black but dramatic lighting makes them appear so. 

 

On the way down from Bend I misunderstood the checker at the Safeway in Burns who asked if we were headed to the Round Barn, a Harney County hotspot. “What? Oh, definitely,” I replied. (I thought she said “Round Bar”.) Of course we detoured anyway, past the Diamond Craters (which look like a failed batch of devilsfood crinkle cookies) to take in the cultural significance of said barn. The mildly interesting structure is as advertised: a barn, that is round, with a complex interior structure of juniper beams. Nearby, a testy man who won’t tell you all about it presides over a crap n’ trinket store with an odd attraction inside that serves as another class reminder: when one is poor and surrounded by junk, they’re a hoarder. Rubbish of the wealthy is considered an eccentric collection, and transferred to frontier museums.

 

 

I towed into Pendleton, Oregon minutes before the Westward Ho! parade and faced nowhere to park; every empty slot and lot teemed with RVs and horse trailers and teepees. Somehow I squeezed into a miracle spot in the WalMart parking lot, stuffed to the curbs with motorhomes, tents, and rednecks camped in the beds of their pickups…like spring break for hillbillies. I followed the crowd and piles of manure on Court Street to the all non-motorized parade which showcased wild west wagons and buggies, all manner of cowboy, Indians, Mexicans, sheriffs, preachers, outlaws, firemen, Oregon Trail pioneers, weird timber equipment, every rodeo princess in the Northwest, longhorns, mules, donkeys, horses, miniature ponies, and State Treasurer Ted Wheeler. The sky was blue, the sun warm, the air acrid with smell of freshly-dropped dung. Life is good. “Let ‘er buck, hail yay-uh,” commented the spectator to my right about the inscription tooled on the chaps of a pretty cowgirl.

 

During Round-Up Pendleton swells by 50,000 people and becomes a spectacle. Tents with vendors hawking cowboy hats, brisket and tacos, rugs and horse blankets, cowgirl bling, and Native American crafts line the streets; at night, the town hosts a week-long party with five entertainment stages and assorted bacchanalia. 

 

The rodeo itself is one of the ten largest in the world. The announcer (who is quite excellent) kicks off the competition by leading the crowd in the official catchphrase: “It’s a noun, it’s an adjective, it’s a verb…!” to which the crowd screams “Let ‘er buck!!” The concessions are reasonable (beer, $4) and the townfolk are friendly and polite. I was mildly surprised when the audience stood to enthusiastically cheer the area tribes in their ceremonial attire during the Indian Show portion of the rodeo; the community here warmly embraces and honors the Native American, a part of Round-Up week for 101 years. (It’s not like that in California. Just sayin’.)

 

I visited the “Let ‘Er Buck Room” during a break in the rodeo action to see if I could get groped. (No takers). Less of a bar and more of just a shadowy, enclosed space beneath the bleachers, the famous party den is packed wall to wall with drinkers generating a deafening noise; copious signage warns “Keep Your Clothes On – Indecent Exposure Will Not Be Tolerated”.

 

I drycamped for the weekend in the community park and enjoyed overeating and overdrinking as usual with the Oregon Unit of the WBCCI, who have been hosting Airstreamers at the Round-Up for 46 years.

 

Parade rankings by the author

(Criteria: Length, weather, relative lack of corporate sponsorship, high local kitsch factor)

1. UFO Festival, McMinnville
2. San Diego St. Patrick’s Day
3. Pendleton Round-Up Westward Ho! Parade
4. Detroit Lakes Water Carnival Parade of the Northwest
5. Fred Meyer Children’s Holiday Parade (now, alas, Macy’s)
6. Tournament of Roses, Pasadena
7. Portland Pride 
8. Lompoc Flower Festival 
9. Grand Floral Parade, Portland
10. Crazy Days Pet and Doll Parade, Audubon MN
11. Vergas Looney Daze 
12. Jackson Center Community Days

 

Parade bucket list

• Portland Starlight Parade
• Doo Dah Parade
• Carnivale, Brazil
• Carnivale, Trinidad
• Mardi Gras
• Please comment your suggestions!

 

 

I used to be crazy-patriotic. I walked precincts for the party when I was eleven, and voted in every election since I’ve been able (wearing pajamas to the dorm polling place to be first in line at age 18). I know every flag etiquette rule and the harmony part to This Land is Your Land. I grew out of it though, jaded in recent years by my understanding of the bigger world, media massaging, and our electoral system. 

 

But, this Independence Day I had to turn my head so no one would see me choking up over a red white and blue birthday cake.

 

July 4th is the birthday of Airstream creator Wally Byam, born in Baker City, Oregon in 1896. In observance, the Oregon Unit of the WBCCI and the Baker Heritage Museum threw a summer-long celebration: an exhibit of rare memorabilia from the life and travels of the hometown boy, highlighted by a “living history” open house rally of vintage and new Airstreams on Byam’s birthday weekend. 

 

Artifacts in the museum included personal items and photos from Byam’s caravan trips and rarities from the early days of Airstream manufacturing, mostly donated by cousin Dale “Pee Wee” Schwamborn, custodian of Byam’s history, who also presented an insightful and comprehensive decade-by-decade lecture on everything you ever wanted to learn (and more, if you know what I mean) about Byam, his origins, motivation, and travels. 

 

The rally had a historic focus (in conjunction with the expected fraternizing and overserving): Scott Goranson described his experience rescuing and restoring one of the trailers from Byam’s famous Around the World Caravan, and unit member Tom Golden shared the journals and collectibles saved from his mother’s adventure from Cape Town to Cairo.

 

Our rigs in the park adjacent to the museum drew crowds of visitors, including an inspiring couple pedaling their way to whatever’s next, filming and blogging along the way, who captured our rally and birthday party at the museum in a video.

 

At the party I reflected on Wally Byam, the man who brought us all together. An American innovator who created a fine American-made machine, still in production after 80 years, still employing American workers. How apt that he was born on the fourth of July. (Pee Wee recounted a funny fact: four year old Wallace, unaware of the broader meaning of that date, believed the town parade on his birthday to be in his honor.)

 

Before the museum director cut the flag-frosted cake, she led the gathering in song. “Happy birthday to youuuu, happy birthday dear wall-lee…"

To which one voice added, “and America!” So corny. That’s when I hid my silly patriotic tears.

 

 

Group photo above courtesy of Bill Ferry. Visit his Airstream photoblog.

 

 

Jackson Center, Ohio: population 1365—where Wally Byam found the vacant paper factory in 1952 that would house his Airstream production center. Today, workers in JC continue to crank out the aluminum beauties at the only plant that builds new Airstreams and delivers them by flatbed to dealers across the country.

 

‘Streamers, plan a pilgrimage to the factory at your earliest convenience. (New buyer tip: order from a dealer, obtain the production number of your unit, and scurry to Jackson Center where you’re welcome to watch [and photograph] your very own Airstream being built step by step on the line during its nine day assembly process.)

 

The public factory tour (held each day at 2pm) is fascinating—if you love factory tours, and who doesn’t—but it may surprise you. (The Weaselmouth perspective describes it well.) Airstream is a monstrous facility occupying a wide spread of land, yet inside it’s nothing like the automated automobile assembly line you might imagine. It’s more like a home dreamshop. 

 

Each unit is built lovingly by hand (though the new automatic router that cuts windows and doors from a pattern keeps the guide and tour participants riveted—no pun intended), and the factory sounds are satisfyingly deafening. Trailers pass through specialized workstations where plumbing, furniture and lighting are installed, aluminum paneling is riveted, units are checked for leaks (subjecting each to a PacNorwest-level rainstorm in a sealed spray chamber), and finally affixed with their proud insignia. 

 

Disappointingly, no pictures are allowed; a prudent rule, preventing someone like me from publishing a photo of the “water leak awareness” board or other behind-the-scenery that some might use for evil.

 

A family business in a small town, “everyone is related” at Airstream (quipped the guide). I got a little verklempt when CEO Bob Wheeler thanked the Alumapalooza gathering for not just supporting a brand, but for providing the livelihood for hundreds of families.

 

Consider your visit to the Airstream repair center as an opportunity to relax. Your trailer is fixed when it’s fixed; it will be towed to the Terraport—the onsite campground—where you’ll overnight if there’s more work to do when the workday is done. (If predictability and rigid travel plans are how you roll, the Airstreaming lifestyle may not be for you.) At the blessedly air conditioned service center—tricked out with Airstream-themed furniture, comfy sofas and wifi—owners chill out, swap travel tips, chat up the friendly service staff and shop in the “Wally Byam” store for collectibles and gear. Your dog is welcome. There’s free coffee, and cookies. Sit a spell.

 

Airstream production fun facts

• 66% of all Airstreams made are on the road today
• The 25-footer is the top seller, but more Eddie Bauers are on the line now than any other model
• The body style has changed only six times in 80 years; new shapes appeared in 1936, ‘46, ‘50, ‘58, ‘65 and 2005, each time reducing the number of panels (reducing the opportunities for leaks)

 

Alumapalooza is an all-Airstream event sponsored by the good folks who bring you Airstream Life magazine, held on the grounds of Airstream, Inc. 

Like a giant rally, but more, Alumapalooza crams back to back activities into a too-short six day event, presented by those who own and love Airstream: gear, technical and safety classes; workshops on interior design and vintage restoration; tax tips for fulltimers; morning yoga; numerous maintenance sessions; cooking and sketching demos; a short session on bucking rivets (“Buck Rivet”—best porn name ever) before the annual team competition; vendors with expensive, must-have goodies; professional entertainment; and daily happy houring, grilling and socializing with the big names at Airstream and fellow travelers from all corners of the nation. In short, it’s a blast.

 

Replacing what was once called Homecoming Week at the factory, Alumapalooza is cheap for all you get; $300 per rig buys a week at the Mothership and field parking with water and enough electricity to keep your laptop charged. (What wasn’t cheap was the gas it took to get here. Let’s see…2500 miles, $4 per gallon, average mpg…Gah! I don’t even want to add the receipts.)

 

Already memories:

Visiting the mothballed trailers (including Stella, the Byam’s gold Airstream) in the production lot with @whereisKylenow; finding a corny map of the US on the side of one—the kind with the stick-on states—and pointing out where we’ve been, and where we plan to go

Meeting other online acquaintances in person, like the delightful @Weaselmouth team (perhaps their blog will mention their performance at the Rivet Masters contest)

Learning to cook (sort of) using hot coals and a Dutch oven

Conversing with Maxine—a lovely lady at the Methodist church dinner—who shared a few stories about working as a curtain seamstress at the Airstream factory, fifty years ago

The lively couple with two miniature dachshunds who dress them in twisted costumes

Pink bursts of lightning reflecting off the mirror-polished vintage trailer parked next to the DWR

Michael Depraida’s ice machine. (Agreed: “The ability to make ice is what separates us from the animals.”) 

 

 

As I can’t resist a “world’s largest” or “home of” roadside attraction, I swerved off the highway in Iowa and followed signs to Winterset—birthplace of John Wayne (American). There I encountered bustle and excitement: bunting around the courthouse, a cavalry encampment, a Rotary-sponsored fun run, a band assembling in the town square, and everywhere, flags flying.

 

“What’s going on?” I asked a local Rotarian. “Memorial weekend?” He blinked at me. “It’s John Wayne’s BIRTHDAY,” he said.

 

Oh. Sorry! Didn’t know. This will result in a loss of precious RSS subscribers but I regard John Wayne (né Marion Morrison) as the most overrated actor in film history. But, his status as an icon (and American) cannot be denied.

 

Twenty minute tours are conducted year round at the treasured white house that was his childhood home; inside are Rooster Cogburn’s eye patch, the cavalry hat worn in Rio Lobo, and old photos and letters from Jimmy Stewart, Lucille Ball, Bob Hope and other (once) household names.

 

The tour commences at the home next door, now a gift shop vending all things John Wayne (and a few mementos commemorating the nearby Bridges of Madison County and their vomitrocious movie).

 

John Wayne’s birthday party! Quelle chance. For once I’m roadtripping through towns at the right moment—ordinarily I pass banners announcing the local festival that just was or will be in a week. I even hit Indianapolis on the 100th anniversary of the running of the Indy 500 (though I couldn’t approach the raceway due to highway closures…don’t get me started on how little I loved Indiana). 

 

 

From the moment I was informed by the nice gas station character that filled the trailer tires that 38 tornadoes just had their way with my eastern destination states, the hostile spring weather has tried to run me off the road: torrential rain in Washington; fat wet snow flurries in Oregon (is the west not aware that it’s nearly Memorial Day?); fierce winds in Idaho that actually BLEW A PART OFF the Airstream (hopefully they’ll reattach it at The Mothership); and fog so dense in Wyoming that semi drivers on the I-80 formed a 30mph protective convoy, hazards flashing.

 

I didn’t see another Airstream on the road until two days into the journey to Alumapalooza—they waved to me from the other side of the freeway in Utah where I was shipwrecked with a blowout. (“What’s next?” asked Ralph on the phone. “Locusts? Raining frogs?”)

 

Having fun anyway. Portland humorist Joe Spooner suggested I stay alert for Little America, which he remembered from crosscountry road trips with his family. Billboards for it appeared up 60 miles in advance but offered no compelling reason to stop: “17 marble showers”, “clean restrooms”, “mechanic on duty”. (At least Wall Drug offers free ice water.) I pulled in anyway, as commanded, and found a long row of Colonial-style buildings with a Sinclair dinosaur on the lawn and absolutely nothing inside: hotel rooms, a tragic gift shop, and a restaurant with the bleak ambiance and fusty smell of a nursing home. That it’s a destination at all is a testament to how empty and devoid of attractions southcentral Wyoming is.

 

Hungry for kitsch, I followed signs at the Nebraska border to the “shrine” hoping to find a local Lourdes-like grotto but it’s just a collosal concrete statue (the largest in Wyoming!) of the Virgin Mary that I could have just as easily seen from the interstate.

 

Road Trip Thumbs Up

☺Free campground WiFi

☺O’Jays on the iPod

☺The Dennis Miller AM radio show. (For a comedian famous for his “rants” he’s the most subdued national pundit. Please, everyone on Fox Talk, CTFD.)

☺Pilot stations. (Wide, accommodating lanes between the pumps; unnaturally bubbly ladies at the counter; Cinnabon.)

☺States that post the number of miles to the next gas station.

☺New puppy Raven—at only three months, already Airstreaming like a champ.

 

 

Why we waited to replace a four year old battery until the day it died—the morning of a road trip—is indicative of how we roll. Ralph, not what anyone would describe as a grease monkey, struggled with the issues surrounding its replacement and we were off like a herd of turtles to The Dalles only three hours past ETD.

The Dalles, Oregon: the town that sounds awkward in any sentence. (“Historic The Dalles.” “The The Dalles walking tour.”) Instead of demolishing their tired old infrastructure, forward-thinking city planners must have said, “Let’s hold off. In another three decades, history buffs will come in their Airstreams to see our one hundred year old Oddfellows Lodge, and drink our beer.” And so it came to pass.

A brochure provided by The Historic Downtown The Dalles Association tells the story of each worn brick building (and a map can be uploaded to your handheld as you walk the few commercial blocks).

The nearby Deschutes River State Park—a splendid, spacious campground right on the river—was sub-freezing, the bathrooms were locked, and the camp host had wisely moved on to less wintery climes. We spent most of the weekend in the warm local ale joints.

 

 

Tillamook, Oregon is a depressing working class town with two agreeable ways to kill an afternoon.

 

According to the tourist brochure, the Tillamook Cheese factory is one of the top ten visitor attractions in Oregon. (California this isn’t.) Signage inside reads “nearly 1 million visitors stop at the Tillamook Cheese Visitors Center” (a day? a year? since the beginning of time?)

 

It’s easy to ignore the many badly-designed, text dense displays; the entire factory —packing machines, conveyor belts, workerbees—is visible behind glass from observation decks. (“Wouldn’t it be great if they piped in Raymond Scott music?” said Ralph.)

 

Back downstairs the free samples are plentiful and strategically located near the refrigerated cases full of cheese, glorious cheese, for purchase (including hard to find varieties). Recipes and instructive materials are available, like the beer and cheese pairing guide and the "Cheese – Care and Handling” booklet. 

 

We skipped the cafe as we were instead drawn to a ramshackle seafood joint directly across the street. (Get the halibut fish and chips, ZOMG.)

 

Less popular but ten times bigger is the Tillamook Air Museum at the edge of town where vintage, mostly military still-flyable aircraft are parked in a giant former blimp hangar built in 1942. Obey the suggestion to view the video before you pay the planes a visit. (In winter, the tiny theatre will be the only warm spot in the facility.) The “helium room” houses the vintage machinery that once pumped up the blimps and photos of the weird aircraft once stored in Hangar B.

 

It was 21 degrees when we left Portland on New Year’s Eve day and it wasn’t much warmer at Cape Lookout State Park on the Oregon Coast, but the sky was a promising blue.

 

We unhitched the Airstream and drove to nearby Netarts to celebrate over steak and cocktails at the fanciest lounge we could find. “A lot of people here, are, uh…missing teeth,” Ralph observed. Somehow the evening cartwheeled into a fireball and we returned to the trailer after a wicked argument and fell asleep—back to back—by 9pm.

 

New Year’s day dawned clear and cold, offering a fresh start. We visited Cape Meares Lighthouse, old Ralston enjoyed the sea smells, Ripley wore his little parka. A fiery sunset was followed by a limitless black night sky without a moon, cloud cover or light pollution; a million stars glittered like retail diamonds.