The next day, a couple stopped at our campsite at Skookum Creek Campground, in Washington State, near the border with Idaho. They were walking their two dogs. When dogs pass by, I always ask to pet them, because I'm missing my Lucinda so much. The man said his grandfather had owned all of the land where we were, gifted to him as a thank you for his service in World War I, but that it reverted back to the government when he died. Who knows if it was true.

I thought a lot about the homeless people at the campground. One was a an older woman, by herself, sleeping in her car over-packed car at the empty camp host site. Others were altogether in a group in one site; one of the vehicles had a flat. I wondered what I always wonder: when was the last time that they had a home where they received mail? Did they have jobs? Did they lose their jobs? Are they addicts? Are they disabled? Do they have family and what's their relationship with that family? Would they like to have a home or have they given up?

We headed out and along the way, we stopped briefly at Kootenai Falls, which you can see in the distance after a little hike from the parking lot. "It is the largest undamed waterfall in the state and one of the largest waterfalls in the USA by flow rate." The bridge and falls have made appearances in movies such as The River Wild (1994) and The Revenant (2015). We skipped the hike to the Kootenai Falls Swinging Bridge - we just didn't have time for the hike, and we were in full motorcycle gear. And I didn't have my hiking poles - I really need at least one for a hike. I learned later that the bridge was first constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps. HURRAH, CCC!

Yaak River Road would probably have been a better option for a scenic or interesting drive. But we didn't have any info on it at the time. Turns out it's paved the whole 65 miles. Looking at info about the road online, I'm sad we missed it.

We stopped for lunch... somewhere. I don't know where. Idaho? Montana? There was a barbecue place and I thought, oh, great, Stefan loves barbecue. They had motorcycle parking right out front and we parked there, both so we could see our bikes from inside and to test our theory yet again, that motorcycles outside a restaurant, particularly one with an empty parking lot, would lead to other bikers coming in. Yup! Just a few minutes later, here came three more bikers. They were three friendly guys from Canada. The place was out of a LOT of food items. Since they were out of chicken, and I didn't want a huge meal. I went with two beef BBQ sliders. The meal was okay, but nothing special at all: the bread was flavorless and dry. The meat wasn't really barbecue - just cooked meat with sauce on it. Stefan didn't think much of his meal either.

I'm not sure when our trips evolved, as far as eating goes. When we first started, we would have something substantial for breakfast, then skip lunch or just have snack bars or maybe a piece of fruit, and then for dinner, I'd heat up something out of a can or cook something real. But our last two or three trips, instead, we have a light breakfast, eat somewhere for lunch, and then maybe split one can for supper or just eat cookies. Or nothing. Either way, I have always lost a pound or two on motorcycle trips, and this one was no exception.

We continued on US Highway 2 and stopped at Happys Inn, a census-designated town that is pretty much just the bar and convenience store that carries the name. We went in for some supplies for the evening and there were four older women at one of the tables, playing some kind of card game. And I thought, you know, I'd like that, a weekly or monthly night out at a local bar where I just sit and drink beer and play Backgammon or something. 

In the parking lot, Stefan wondered if we should get ice for the cooler, to keep what was there cold overnight, along with the beer, which was already cold. And probably two minutes after that, a guy walked up with a quarter-filled bag of ice and said, "I have this left over from putting ice in my cooler - would you by chance have any use for it?" It was the Miracle of the Ice.

We'd camped overnight in Montana at Logan State Park, about 45 miles southeast of Libby on US Highway 2 at Middle Thompson Lake. We weren't sure if there was a national forest campground anywhere later - according to the state park worker, there was, but it was just $5 cheaper than tent camping at her site. But then she dropped the bomb: showers were extra. THAT IS SUCH BULLSHIT. Had I known we were going to have a shower the next night, I wouldn't have bought the tokens for the shower at the state park. But I was really needing a shower. And I really needed to condition my straw-like straight hair - I just looked AWFUL. So I did this: I wet my hair in the sink, which had hot water, then went into the shower stall, undressed, and put in the shampoo. After massaging it in, then I put in the tokens and started the hot shower, rinsed off my hair, and then put in the conditioner, which I kept in while I soaped down my bod. Then tried to time it so I rinsed everything off in the last two minutes.

The state park also had that two-tiered system that so many state parks are adopting, where people in-state pay less than out-of-state folks. I think it's also bullshit, as well as being UN-AMERICAN.

I also did some laundry while I was in the bathroom, and as I came back to the campsite, there was Stefan sitting over in someone else's campsite, drinking a beer. How'd THAT happen? It was some friendly RV folks who invited him over. I went too. I accepted a Busch beer, the first American mainstream brand I've had in a long while. Eric Idle is right: what American big brand beer and making love in a canoe have in common is that they are both fucking close to water. I cut the conversation short, assuming the couple were extreme right wingers and would eventually say something I would have to call them on (about immigrants, climate change, the election - the possibilities are endless) and I just didn't feel like it on this trip. I did enjoy petting their little prissy purebred dogs.

We walked around the campsite to Middle Thompson Lake and back to our camp spot as night was falling. The lake was lovely. The sun was scary bright orange, enhanced by all the forest fire smoke high up in the air.

It had been kind of a blah day. After such a GREAT start to the trip, with lots of "wow" moments, I was ready for some more such moments.

They were coming...

Happy birthday, Stefan! I forgot most of his presents: I had meant to take a photo of one of the presents, too big to bring on the trip, and then show it to him on his birthday, and then we would drink the cheaper Kentucky bourbon I would bring in a flask - all of which I forgot. The only thing I had remembered was the Cadbury chocolates. They were melty when we finally enjoyed them later that evening, but we still enjoyed them.

The smoke from forest fires were still around, and getting worse. It wasn't affecting my breathing, thankfully, but any beautiful mountain views were no more, hidden by a blanket of smoke. And that's sad, because this area is so, so beautiful.

From the Idaho State Park, we pushed on to Kalispell, where I hoped to find a great place for a birthday breakfast for Stefan. Seeing nothing just driving through town, Stefan stopped at what he thought was just a little grocery store so I could ask for a good breakfast suggestion. It was, in fact, a health food store, and the store employee was almost cringing as she told me about Sykes Diner, "where you can get typical diner food, if that's your thing." Well yes, Crunchy, it is! As I walked out, Stefan was talking to a guy in the parking lot, who was saying, "I think Sykes Diner is the way to go."

Following their directions back downtown, we found Sykes Diner, which had motorcycle parking! Hurrah! It did NOT disappoint! It was packed for brunch, which shocked me - it's Thursday! I had their version of biscuits and gravy, which is made with a LOT of paprika. It was delicious. The diner also had this older woman sitting at a piano, playing a "greatest hits" type medly, and when she got to "As Time Goes By", I got a little verklempt. It's not some old historic building - it all looks brand new. It's definitely a Kalispell institution.

We had Internet access at the diner and were relatively near Garnet Ghost Town, so I started googling to find a hotel. I really like treating our selves to a hotel on Stefan's birthday when we're on a motorcycle trip. And there's just one that's kinda sorta near Garnet - the Ovando Inn, in Ovando Montana. It had stellar Google reviews. We paid our breakfast bill and went out to the parking lot, and I called. Yes, they had a room! I booked it.

We've been on Montana route 83 before, back in September 2010, on our way back from Canada, and me still on my Honda Nighthawk. I remember the road as being so, so beautiful, but this time, it wasn't, and I couldn't figure out why I had thought such a straight road had been so wonderful a decade ago. And then I realize it was because there were gorgeous, high mountains all around us - and we couldn't see them because of the smoke.

We stopped at the Condon Work Center, at a building now housing Swan Valley Connections, a nonprofit that serves the public on behalf of the U.S. Forest Service, selling maps and firewood permits and providing detailed information about area recreation, including an interpretive center. The woman there was SO helpful, printing out a guide to Montana ghost towns for us and calling a National Forest Center closer to Skalkaho Highway Scenic Byway, a forty-five mile drive that runs between the Bitterroot Valley and the Philipsburg Valley in Montana. Stefan had found the road on a paper map and really wanted to check it out. I was nervous that it might be entirely steep gravel and difficult. The guy she called was not as reassuring as a I wanted, but some online reviews and a video were. I hadn't said yes yet to taking the road, but I also hadn't said no. 

We continued on to Ovando, and as soon as I saw the sign for the turnoff for the town from the highway, I started singing "Fernando" by Abba. And this is why Stefan and I don't have an intercom system, because they are all voice-activated and he really doesn't want to hear me constantly sing songs inspired by road signs, cars, things written on barns, cows...

I never wanted to leave.

The Ovando Inn is magical. It's in a 100 year old building. The inn is over the old-time country store, except for one room. In addition to the six oh-so comfortable and clean, simple bedrooms, each with in-suite bathrooms, there's a generous common area with many comfy chairs and a big table with chairs and a big kitchen guests can use to cook. The little grocery store was better stocked than any little convenience store we'd seen in days. They even had ice cream - which we didn't get to enjoy because by the time we had settled in, the store was closed.

I loved this place so, so much! We probably should have stayed two nights. I totally want to stay here again.

Out in the little town square, the teepee, the converted sheep herders wagon and the old city jail - the hoosegow - are all FREE places for bicyclists to sleep over out of the elements. I guess motorcyclists could probably stay there too... but yeah, no thanks, not tonight, I'm staying at the fabulous Ovando Inn! Apparently, Ovando sits at the intersection of two of bicycle routes, the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route (GDMBR) and the Lewis & Clark Bicycle Trail. Online sources say the town gets hundreds of bicyclists passing through every summer, and when we were there, the next morning, a group of bicyclists were being dropped off in vans, about to start their day's ride.

Yes, this was yet another part of the Lewis and Clark trail. In fact, this was part of the trail without Clark (they split up at one point). Apparently, we cannot go on a motorcycle travel adventure in the USA without encountering a site related to the Lewis and Clark expedition. That's okay - this one highlighted Lewis' dog especially.

We showered, I changed into my dress, and we walked the half a mile to Trixi's Antler Saloon, high on a hill above the town and back out on Montana Route 200. We didn't know it was legendary but, indeed, it is. I did know even before we got there that it would NOT a good place to park my motorcycle, covered in stickers that would get me shot here.

Trixi's is a neighborhood dive bar, and those are absolutely the best kind. Plenty of seating and full of characters. The two Harley riders who were also staying at the Ovando Inn were there as well. We ordered our food and took it all in: the people in the back offended by the performance of "Lift Every Voice and Sing" before the NFL game on TV ("This ain't the National Anthem!"), the gorgeous vintage photos or drawings of naked women above the entrance, the banter between a drunk guy at one of the gambling machines and the main bartender, who put up with his drunken rhetoric like the pro she is and then graciously accepted the $100 tip when he won big at the machine, and on and on. It was quite a site, with a lot of sights. And sounds. We kept our mouth shut for the most part and just listened.

Trixi McCormick, the namesake of the bar, was a 1940s era sexy trick roper and rider, according to all the sources on the Interwebs I could find about her, as well as articles posted on the wall of the bar. She performed at rodeos, vaudeville shows, nightclubs and theaters and during World War II toured with a USO show to Japan, Australia, the Philippines and other countries. After her performing days were over, she founded Trixi's Antler Saloon and locals say she kept a sawed-off baseball bat, a wagon wheel spoke and an old single-action Colt under the bar, ready to use "on misbehaving customers and errant boyfriends." She was involved in a lawsuit in 1966 regarding its liquor license that I found kind of interesting. She talked to her granddaughters about what she wanted after she died, and after she died, they carried out those wishes at the Drummond Community Hall: they cooked for two days: macaroni salad, potato salad with dill pickles and black olives, ham and roast beef, rolls, chili, soup, raw vegetables, chips and dip. They put a keg of beer next to the coffee pot. Visitors were instructed to wear blue jeans and to have fun. A lot of this info comes from an article in the Missoulian. And it's another example of why we need newspapers: we need these stories. How many are we losing now because, when such legendary people die, there's no newspaper to write about it?

The next morning, we talked a bit about where to go next. And I realized we were kind of out of ideas. Which was scary, as we were barely half done with the trip. Before we left on the trip, when I had made a list of historic towns, I had included some to see in Oregon, but the descriptions hadn't been super promising as far as things to see. And some of the towns, it turns out, we had been through - and if they didn't leave an impression on us driving through them then, I'm not sure they would now. But we really didn't want to go home until the next Saturday: I had really struggled to find a dog sitter, and had ended up needing two because one couldn't cover the entire time. The main sitter would be paid through the morning of Sunday, September 17th, regardless of when we got home, so I really wanted to be gone until Saturday afternoon, even Saturday evening.

As we drank coffee and had breakfast and tried to warm up, the sunlight started to heat up the canyon, and the pine cones from some of the trees started to fall every few seconds. At first, I thought the squirrels were mad at us. We were being assaulted! I can't believe we didn't get hit - but lots of our gear and the tent did. Before we left, the camp host came down to make sure we paid (we always pay), and to chastise us for driving Stefan's motorcycle into our campsite so we could more easily unpack (my bike stayed out on the pavement area) - even though there was a lot of moisture in the air, it was considered a fire danger.

We continued West on US Highway 12 and made our mandatory stop at the Lolo Pass Visitors' Center, my favorite visitors' center in the world. It's right on the border with Idaho. It has an incredible selection of history books for sale, free coffee and cocoa and a super comfy cozy area to enjoy such in. It has lots of information on the Lewis and Clark journey across the Bitterroot mountains, the tragic Nez Perce Flight of 1877, and historical, natural, and general information about the area. It also has 24-hour clean restrooms and a covered picnic area. I like to just sit there inside, have my coffee or cocoa and gab with other visitors and listen to the questions they ask staff. It was so nice to do this again all these years after our last visit. That I didn't buy a book this time is absolutely extraordinary. But Stefan did buy a mini Smokey the Bear - apparently, he will be going with us on our trips now (we already have a stay-at-home Smokey).

I asked the ranger working at the site if things really do slow down immediately after Labor Day. "Yup." She said it is a sudden, sharp decline in visitors that starts immediately on Labor Day.

There are a lot of National Forest campgrounds off US Highway 12, each with a pit toilet (or more). but I'm not sure there is a sign for each one. Good idea to have them marked somehow BEFORE your trip, to ensure you can find them.

The smoke was thick in the canyon, but US Highway 12 was still beautiful and I was completely digging the ride.

At one point, we stopped at Three Rivers Resort, looking for food, and as I made the left turn, to cross over the river to the compound, I saw a few dozen Harley motorcycle riders lining the drive into the place. Felt weird to ride through them, like I was intruding. There had been some kind of event and it was ending or was already over. The convenience store looked thoroughly picked through - I guess it was about to close for the season. Note: this place does offer very affordable tent camping when bath/shower houses are open, through September 30.

Stefan really wants to do Lolo Motorway someday, along the Historic Lolo Trail, but I'm nervous. The Lolo Motorway, also known as Forest Road 500, is 119 miles long between Powell in the East and Kamiah in the West and Powell in the east. It is a primitive, winding road built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. It follows the traditional route of the Nez Perce more closely than Highway 12. Despite the name "Motorway," this road is very rough, narrow, winding, primitive road and travels through remote country, dipping into saddles and ascending again onto ridge tops. Forest Road 500 is suitable only for high clearance vehicles. The road is reportedly (and generally) free from ice and snow by mid-July and usually accessible into October. Here's more information about it.

We stopped for lunch in Kooskia, at the Kooskia Cafe, unintentionally sitting under this piece of "art." I went out to my bike to get something, and a woman was standing there looking at my bike. She said she rides a Kawasaki Versys, and we chatted a bit. This was my only conversation with an active woman motorcycle rider. I saw so few women motorcycle riders on this trip, fewer than ever before. We were seeing as many motorcyclists, maybe more, than we saw on our trip up to the Yukon and back, but women motorcyclists - I may have seen three the whole time, except at the Harley gathering. And it made me so sad. Motorcycle riding is so magical, and I'm sad that so many women are missing out on the magic.

In Orofino, Idaho, we turned off to head to Canyon Creek Campground for the evening, something I had chosen earlier in the day while looking at Stefan's paper map. And on our way up Dent Bridge Road, literally, I came to a hairpin turn I couldn't make. If an oh-so-wide shoulder hadn't been here for me to bail out on, or if a vehicle had been coming down, I'm not sure what I would have done. Here's an aerial view. I felt like such a failure, but this turn was too much. I had a feeling that these kind of uphill and downhill hairpin turns happened over and over on this road. And this road was BUSY. If there were more such turns... so I refused to go on and said we would need to turn around and find something else.

There was a sign for Dworshak State Park back in town and the sign said it was 20 miles away. I figured, it being a state park, it would be far easier to get to, since most people that go to state parks have massive RVs, many of which are pulling something - a boat or a trailer full of ATVs or whatever - and therefore the road would not have these kinds of hairpin turns. And it was one of those rare occasions when a state park sounded really great: warm water running in sinks, where I could wash my face, brush my teeth, do some laundry... It was what I needed. So I suggested, though light was fading, that we push on to the state park, which I was relatively sure wouldn't be full, since the last state park we stayed in wasn't and they seemed to be ready to close some of the park now that Labor Day Weekend was long done.

The ride was nice at first, as we continued to climb gently and rode through ranch land and farm fields, which felt surreal, knowing that forested US 12 and Clearwater River (or Selway River or whatever it's called at that point) were not far away. But when we got just half a mile from the park, I was in for a shock: a dramatic slope down into a canyon, with five nasty hairpin turns. Thank goodness there were no vehicles going in nor out as we descended. I made it, despite being exhausted and terrified. We pulled up to the booth at the entrance and it was empty, with a sign that seemed to say we weren't supposed to pay now, that we were supposed to pay tomorrow as we left. We came to the first main circle for camping, and I don't know why, but I passed it. It was mostly empty, so that was a great sign that we would have a good night. We came to the second circle, also mostly empty, and I told Stefan to go drive through it and pick a spot, a spot with a pretty view - he's more particular than me when it comes to choosing a spot, so I like to let him do it.

While he rode around, I sat on my bike feeling dreadful. Driving uphill on hairpin turns is, in my opinion, my absolute biggest weakness on the motorcycle. It was on such a turn that I wrecked on Shafer Switchbacks. I'd made it down - how in the world was I going to make it up? I knew that feeling of dread was going to hover over my evening and night like a Dementor. Well, at least I would have warm water tonight. At least I would have that.

Stefan returned and said he'd found a good site. I followed. He drove across the entire site and then pulled into a road that went away from the main camping and pulled into an unshaded gravel parking lot. I didn't see a campsite anywhere. He started walking up a dirt hill. I followed. We came over the hill and were on a small, slanted dirt ledge precariously positioned above an ugly fake lake that was many, many meters lower than its designers intended it to be. The tent pad was significantly downhill from the rest of the campsite and partially disintegrating down the sharp, steep slope. The picnic table was flat but if you dropped anything, it would roll down the hill and, I guess, eventually, into the lake. I stared in disbelief. This was the "pretty" campsite?

It went all downhill from there, no pun intended, and was our worst night out. I was angry that our campsite was on the side of a hill, I refused that the tent be put on the tent pad and insisted it be put pretty much on the campground trail itself, I all but threw a fit when I realized the toilet we were near was a pit toilet - I had so wanted a bathroom with plumbing that night, especially warm water, and then I couldn't find a water spigot and walked way father than I needed to to find one (there was one in our area, hidden by a tree). At one point, a child of some campers nearby but unseen decided that honking the truck horn was TERRIFIC fun and I yelled, "Stop it, NOW!" It echoed all over the canyon and she did, indeed, stop.

I sat there watching yet another oh-so-orange setting sun through forest fire smoke , and thought yet again, how in the hell am I going to get out of here? I was trying really hard not to cry. Even seeing some deer, one up close, did nothing to make me feel better.

Day 10, Sunday, September 11 I did sleep that night, but was still full of dread the next day and barely spoke. Before Stefan got up, I walked to the pit toilet, then hiked through a cut-grass path to an amphitheater, then cut over to the main campground, took a photo of my grumpy self in my motorcycle mirror, then returned to camp. We had a very light breakfast, most of which I threw up later. I thought about what it would be like to wreck again, and hoped dropping the bike at low speeds on a hairpin turn wouldn't break my leg and that Stefan would be able to get the bike off of me quickly.

Not a good morning.

We packed up and headed to the entrance. I filled out the envelope and payment for our site. The woman working the entrance booth saw the amount and said, "I'm not sure that's right." And it was all I could do not to flip out. It was not the time to tangle with me. I pointed to the overly-complicated chart and showed her how I'd calculated the fee that I had just written a check for - the most expensive rate for tent camping, I should add. She went through it with me and said, "Oh, yes, maybe that is right, but you are also supposed to pay a fee for entering the State Park." I could feel my blood boiling. "I have never, in my life, paid a fee for entering a state park when I am also CAMPING there." I said it calmly, but firmly. And just as I was about to say, "I'm not paying it. Call the sheriff but I am leaving right now. Fuck this," she seemed to sense I was a woman on the edge and she should be glad she was getting any money at all said, "You know, it's fine. Let's just forget that."

Yes, let's forget that, because I have to go fail getting up these hairpin turns to get the hell out of this place I am never coming back to.

Stefan said he would ride his bike in front of me and he would stop any traffic coming down, so that there would be no one in the opposite lane when I made an inside right hand turn, where we both knew I would veer into the opposite lane and oncoming traffic on such a tight curve. And while I did, indeed, do that, I am happy to report that there was no ongoing traffic at all. I had to scream at myself as I went up though, "Turn your head, turn your head, look right, look right, accelerate, accelerate." Yes, I really did that. But it worked - I talked myself through it and got out, I didn't run off the road, I didn't drop my bike, and my thunky thunky bike made it up.

A weight lifted off my soul.

I was immediately ready to have a better day.

Spoiler alert: I did.

A side note: had I not been so afraid of all those hairpin turns, we could have taken Dent Bridge Road, past Canyon Creek Campground, Elk River, Idaho, where, we found out later, Itchy Boots had stayed many weeks ago.  

We, however, headed west, taking Idaho route 3 south, which turned into Washington 129 South. We weren't expecting much in terms of twisty roads, but that's what we got, and we were VERY pleased. It was a great road! We stopped at Fields Spring State Park in Washington state for a pee break, and found the kind of state park I love: old, still with original bathrooms, and a feeling of history and adventure instead of comfort and slots for RVs. It's nestled in the Blue mountains, which span 4,000 square miles, including seven northeastern Oregon and three southeastern Washington counties. It has A frames, cabins, two eight-person teepees, a 20-person loft in a lodge with a fireplace and, of course, campsites. Supposedly, there are natural swim spots nearby. A park manager came out to talk to us and he could not have been nicer. He told us about a time last year when the park had to be evacuated because of a threat of wildfire - it's something I'm so scared of.

The road after Fields Spring State Park became even more twisty and fun, and then it became Oregon road 3 after we crossed the state border, heading South, and it is so much curvier than a map indicates! This whole route is VERY popular with motorcyclists - we passed so, so many, including a group of Harley riders parked on the side of the road in the woods, having just done it or about to do it. This is all North of Enterprise and Joseph, Oregon. Unfortunately, the smoke from the fires in Wallowa ruined any views. We loved these roads so much that I want to put together a short trip next year where we just come to Fields Spring State Park camp for a couple of days and ride around on the surrounding roads, like this one.

The oh-so-helpful guy at Fields Spring State Park had suggested we lunch at Terminal Gravity Brewery and Pub in Enterprise. It was the right choice. Hard to find if you miss the sign for it - it's not at all right downtown. The food was really delicious - some of the best we had on the entire trip. Loved sitting outside and enjoying the day, even with all the smoke, even with the kids running around as though the restaurant was their playground, while their parents pretended they weren't climbing on unoccupied tables and trying to swing from umbrellas. One little girl has parents that truly don't care and I fear she is going to be oh-so-easily groomed, as she craves any attention whatsoever from complete strangers. She's about 6. On a happier note, two woman stopped me as we left and said, "You're on the green one, right?" I said yes, proudly. They were there for fly fishing and are from Hillsboro, Oregon. I think they'd seen all my propaganda stickers on the way in and realized I wasn't at all from around there.  

We had a grocery stop in Enterprise to get supplies, then tried to find the ranger station downtown - which Stefan then realized was in Joseph instead. I got yelled at by someone who felt I'd pulled out in front of them. I was ready to call it a day. We decided to go to the closet campground - Hurricane Creek Campground. There were others just a little farther, in a canyon, but I was worried they would be in crazy steep canyons, and of course they would be gravel roads, and I was just so tired - I didn't want an obstacle course today. We went a back way to get there. Google reviews implied the road to the campground was much more steep than it actually is. The road IS filled with a lot of potholes and some big gravel pieces but it's all really easy to navigate, at least on my KLR.

Hurricane Creek campground is in a lush, green canyon with a big creek running through it, and despite there being little ranches and homesteads along the way, you really feel isolated once you enter the campsites. The campsites are very isolated from each other and most are surrounded by a lot of greenery. If you go, take a right once you enter the campground and take any campsite you see - there's only 12, I think. The ones to the left are really only for tent campers and the road to them is TERRIBLE - and that's Stefan's description, not mine, so you know it's bad. There's THREE vault toilets! Not sure why they are so generous, but, wahoo! Since there were so few campers there, we took the campsite that's for RVs (however, I cannot imagine driving a freakin' RV into this campground). We took it because the bathroom was right next to the site.

Our site is supposed to be "accessible." I am really happy that there is more and more accessibility design in campgrounds, but I think calling it accessible is a stretch. I have colleagues in wheelchairs and I'm not sure they can roll up hill in gravel on their own. Or roll over gravel and wood planks to a picnic table on their own.

But we LOVED our campsite. Stefan had plenty of room and light to work on the bikes, to give them regular maintenance (check the oil, check the chains, adjust them and lube them if needed, etc.). And I finally had time to sit down and update my travel notes, something I'd been unable to do every night as I like to.

When I write travelogues, like the one you are reading now, I start by uploading all the photos I have chosen, taken by both me and by Stefan, for your viewing pleasure (many don't make the cut), and I write descriptions on them. Them I use the descriptions to write the first draft of the travelogue, filling in stuff from memory. And then, when I'm done with that first draft, I go back and look at my notes - a long list of bullet points of things I want to remember - and further fill in information. Without those notes, I'd be writing a very incomplete and, at times, inaccurate account. And writing a rich narrative is important to me, mostly for me - when I go back and read a travelogue years later, I'm awash with forgotten memories. It's a really wonderful experience to put together these travelogues. And, quite frankly, naming all these places and offering opinions about them helps the SEO for my site tremendously! 

And now a word from my husband:

 
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