It’s the first truly warm spring week in Bend. I’m itching to be outdoors, but deadlines are oblivious to the weather report. Time to move rg coleman communications HQ to the grounds outside the Pine Cone Lodge.

There’s too much screen glare to work from the patio table on the backyard deck, but the Airstream makes a perfect indoor/outdoor office. 

A new solar panel powers an inverter for the MacBook to plug into; iPod and Pandora supplies the mood music. Wifi from the house just barely reaches the DWR in the driveway, so I supplement with a tethered iPhone for connectivity.

During breaks I can sit in a plastic Adirondack chair outside the trailer, drinking decaf and watching poor Ralph dig holes on the property to accommodate the truckload of (theoretically) deer-resistant plants that arrived this week, and contemplate the Advantages of Working in an Airstream Office:

• It’s the best of both worlds: One maintains the clean fingernails of a white collar desk job while enjoying the fresh air and sunshine of an occupation outdoors.

• Dressing for work boosts self esteem: Commuting across the driveway in broad daylight, in view of passing joggers and neighbors retrieving their newspaper, necessitates that I change from pajamas into actual “clothing” (meaning socks, hoodie, and matching sweatpants).

• Psychic separation of work and play: At day’s end, slamming the Airstream door and walking “home” puts the workday in the rear view mirror in a more tangible and symbolic way than just shuffling downstairs and opening the liquor cabinet.

Further tips or suggestions, anyone? Can I get an amen? Have you converted your RV into an at-home office? 

The iBall Hitch Cam went directly onto my Christmas wish list after Teresa Taylor’s sister demonstrated its virtues at the Pendleton Round Up rally.

It requires a 9V battery, not included, nor is a manual—everything you need to know about its operation is described by a three-step diagram on the packaging card. (By the way, will someone please invent a device to pop open the industrial strength plastic casing that’s fused around everything these days. You need the jaws of life just to open the iBall package.) 

Position the magnetic camera on the back of your tow vehicle so that it looks down onto the ball hood thingy on the hitch (that’s a technical term), start backing into position, and keep your eye on the little color tv screen (another technical term, stop me if this is going too fast) that’s plugged into your vehicle’s lighter hole. Watch in awe while you back the ball straight into position.

“This is a lot different from our Airstream trips last year, on the west side,” said Ralph. He’s right; gone is the pouring rain, incessant windshield wiper noise, smell of soggy dog. Welcome to late winter camping in Central Oregon: 64 degrees, blue sky, the night sparkling with stars. (Before I sound too giddy, it was a mild winter across the state; even wet, miserable Portland got a break.)

Our destination: the town of Summer Lake, only 100 miles from our snow-covered driveway in Bend. Ana Reservoir RV Park—owned by members of the Oregon Unit of the WBCCI—is well tended, shipshape, WiFi-less (take a cyber vacation for once), and, if you visit in February or March or anytime in the winter, devoid of humanity.

At one point, dozing in the midday sun on one of the insanely expensive Tripolina chairs that came with the DWR, I strained to hear a sound. Dead silence…then, the faint chirping of birds. Later, a faraway truck passing on Route 31.

Ralph experienced the same deafening quiet while he fished the spring-fed Ana River. (Know before you go: the trout are biting a half-mile from the access road, beyond some bushwhackable sage-covered terrain.)

Other than fishing and napping, there isn’t much else to do in the area unless you count driving the Christmas Valley National Back Country Byway, a part-gravel 45 mile loop that allows you to view a variety of geologically significant formations (says the signage) like Crack In The Ground and Fort Rock. Play I Spy along the way: an impressive and intriguing assortment of unintentionally “vintage” travel trailers are dotted about, moored at ranches and abandoned in fields. 

To rectify a massive oversight and kill time until we get back on the road, I asked Ralph, co-pilot of our DWR, to finally guest post on ‘Streaming. Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time ever, put your hands together for “The Master of History”:

Hello! I’m the other half (or quarter, if you count Ripley and Raven) of the quartet that’s featured here. I’m the one that’s the product of that celebrity math equation on the “Who is ‘Streaming?” page, and the one with the foldable fetish.

Things have been quiet….Rhonda been very busy writing, about Airstreams of course, and we haven’t been out on the road much at all. That’s what happens when you lose control of your life; when work and a new house start getting in the way of having Airstream fun. 

The move to Bend has changed our approach to Airstreaming. Here, the weather starts becoming a factor–at least that’s what our predisposition was. Either roads are icy, campgrounds closed, or you just want to hunker down. Now, this year, there’s no excuse. The weather in late November and December was good, but the Holidays just got in the way. Also, the house is too nice. Yes, the Pine Cone Lodge (the nickname we gave our house) is a pretty fun place, and we’re busy exploring Bend. So, lots of reasons but no excuses. 

The upside is that we’ll have some great adventures once we get going, because Central Oregon is a target-rich environment for the short trips we make during the late Winter and Spring. There’s Crater Lake (when it reopens), the Lakeview district, and maybe even stopping over at Frenchglen again, but this time taking it all the way out to Winnemucca. I’ve got a couple of fishing trips lined up (thank goodness we now have seat covers), and Rhonda’s planning another visit to Burning Man.

So, stay tuned…

I was outside at a Utah Starbucks when a man arrived with his two chocolate labs. He left them unleashed near a table, and without a word, went inside to fetch his latte. The dogs watched him disappear, then sat politely to wait for his return. “That,” I said to my friend, “is the difference between a lab and a dachshund.” Ralston would lie down to wait. Ripley and Raven would cry, “Yay, she’s gone! Let’s play in traffic!” and I’d never see them again. 

Thus the need for Invisible Fence at home and a new camping must-have: “The Rock” PetFree™ Outdoor Solution Plus portable electronic fence system. It works like a charm and the concept is fiendishly simple. 

Before The Rock, glamping with the doxies meant they either a] hogtied us to our camp chairs with their tangled long leashes (on purpose, we’re sure), or b] promptly darted away. (I get why people call them “dash-hounds”.) Now, with The Rock fence, we establish a big yard around the Airstream with one hundred feet of wire attached to a transmitter hidden in a little plastic boulder, and inform the dogs of the wire perimeter by planting the white flags they’re trained to recognize at the border. While wearing their special “beep collars”—which issue a wristwatch alarm-like tone if they get too close to the flags (and a mild shock if they dare to cross the wire)—the dogs play safely nearby without knocking over the cocktail table with their outdoor leads, or running off to chase the campground squirrels and neighbor pets.

Does the collar hurt? Not really; it’s more of a creepy pulse than a pain. (The Central Oregon Invisible Fence trainer/installer—a kind and patient man that the dogs adore—encouraged me to take the adjustable shock myself.) It’s as intense as touching the TV set after walking on the carpet in sock feet; just enough of a surprise to get the pet’s attention and divert them away from the boundary. Dogs are not dumb, and learn the rules quickly.

R&R jump for joy when they see the collars coming out; they represent freedom, smells, and playing leash-free outdoors. Soon, we’re told, they may not require the collars at all; just placing the white flags around the trailer should keep them nearby. We’ll see. (Again: Dogs—not dumb.)

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.

My friend Karla—a spectacular cook—sells high-end kitchen tools as a Demarle At Home instructor and host. Recently she suggested the obvious that I’d overlooked: wouldn’t Flexipans be perfect for your Airstream?

Of course! Yes! If the DWR had an oven. 

I made these Halloween brownie bites in a mini muffin tray at home (using a low cal version of a box mix, with applesauce instead of oil), but YOUR trailer or RV certainly has an oven and you’ll want this rubbery cookware for your galley. 

Made of some kind of silicone, they don’t need prepping (no polluting your Airstream interior with greasy Pam spray), they barely need cleaning (rinse and wipe), and they squish to stow and don’t clank around in the cupboard. The Silpat baking sheets roll up as well, and the roundish one even doubles as a pot lid.

Demarle products aren’t cheap, but Christmas is coming. Get the cookbook-like catalog from Karla and assemble your wish list; the pans, molds and sheets come in dozens of diminutive (and regular) shapes and sizes.

The first day of fall in Bend. Ahh. Most of the tourist trade has vanished (I’m told), and the hipsters have slunk back to Portland and their PBRs. Locals are relaxing, the sky is blue, and the beer is flowing.

When I moved to Portland twenty years ago I had not yet heard of hefeweizen and immediately contracted OBD (Oregon Butt Disease), which manifests as fifteen sudden pounds in the posterior caused by too many 200-calorie pints. I’ve since switched to red wine and martinis (probably no less caloric) but now that I’m #inbend, I’m rediscovering beer. Portland is touted as Beervana, but Central Oregon seems to be nosing ahead as the leader of the craft brew movement. 

First stop: Oktoberfest, downtown. Lots of said beverage, an oompah band, brats, deep fried pickles, wiener dog races, “absurd games of skill for prizes”, and a lederhosen/dirndl costume contest (though more were dressed in yellow and green and relieved to learn the Oregon game would be aired in the polka tent). 

Later, I joined a hairier crowd sunbathing a short bike ride away at the Bend Roots Revival: “three days, eight stages and 100 local music acts” in a stealth location between a brew pub and a winery. 

Twenty minutes away in twee Sisters, more music and more drinking under the big tent at the Fresh Hop Festival.

All uncrowded, all free admission, all in one weekend. Dozens of designer beers, 105 bands, 90 degrees…wait, why am I telling you this? Strike that. Bend sucks. Nothing to see here…move along.

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!

The state fair may be legend, but Minnesota’s podunk summer festivals—Detroit Lakes’ Water Carnival, the Audubon Pet Parade (which took ten minutes, beginning to end), and “Looney Daze” (sic) in Vergas—deliver superior fun with easier parking.

Lakeside communities in northwestern Minnesota—frozen into a block of ice for seven-plus months—have to cram their pent up energy into the short tourist months of summer. In Vergas, where the loon is revered as a deity, you’ll find loon ball, the worlds largest loon, and, in August, Looney Daze. (Actual slogan: "WhAt HaPpEnS In VeRgAs!…StAyS In VeRgAs!")

The four humid days of activities include rummage sales, "Vergas Idol" karaoke, loon calling and strongman contests, water fights, a beer garden, and the ubiquitous small town parade, which I love to watch while listening to commentary by the townsfolk in their thick accents straight out of Fargo. (At the drinks cart, a woman in line ahead of me ordered a “sprayt”.)