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.
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.