On a long driving day, there comes a point in the late afternoon…say around five or six-ish.

Maybe we’re both a little hungry, maybe we’re both thinking that we should have set up at that last campsite we saw around 3-ish…but it had been cold and raining there and it didn’t look quite optimal, and besides, we wanted to get closer to Portland. All those reasons and none of those reasons, conspired to find us, ready to park but with nowhere to stop anywhere in sight.

 

 

Granted, our home is dutifully following behind us, but there is a societal expectation to stay off the streets. It is assumed that we will ensconce our tiny home in a State or National Park, or God forbid, the often-concreted expanse of an RV park.

We were headed east along the southern side of the Columbia Gorge, traveling on Historic Highway #30. Things were looking less and less hopeful. We stopped at Vista Point, a beautiful domed site built in 1918, to see what we could see. But the rain and the fog obscured most of the gorge.

I went up to the info desk, “Are there any campgrounds nearby?” “Oh yes,” the grey-haired woman in the purple-flowered sweatshirt answered, “Ainsworth is only 12-miles east and it’s beautiful and there are at least four more State Parks spread out after that.” She pointed out Ainsworth on the far side of the map.

“Great,” I said, “and can you tell me about Tad’s Chicken & Dumpling Diner that we passed a little ways back?” The grizzled-looking man next to her responded, “It’s been there since World War Two. It’s actually a restaurant and a bar,” he grinned but looked a bit sheepish, “I used to eat there…and drink there…a lot.” Now he looked slightly relieved, as if he had been compelled to tell the whole truth about what he’d done.

She sniffed a little, “It’s popular, but the truth is,” here her voice dropped a little as she stage-whispered her truth, “I don’t really like their chicken at all.”

As the day’s light had dimmed, and after seeing Tad’s full parking lot and cool old neon sign, we simply thought that we’d find a nearby campsite, forgo making dinner and instead, we’d have a local chicken and dumpling experience and the next day drive back into Portland for the day. Such a tidy plan seemed to be evolving.

We found Ainsworth. She was right. It looked great.

The sign read, FULL.

As we drove further along the twisty highway, Tad’s and Portland receded further and further into the background. We missed the turnoff to a sign promising a KOA, but neither of us felt quite desperate enough to turn back.

Not yet.

 

Our tidy plan slowly unravelled.

We got caught in a construction detour and were suddenly spit out onto Highway 84, exactly where we did not want to be. Further and further we drove, now we were sixty miles out of Portland and clock showed after six. Then we saw the exit sign, Wyeth State Park. We drove through the hemlocks, the glorious greens, the mosses, the maples, it was magnificent.

Except. Every spot was either full or held a reserved sign.

We usually circle a couple of times, looking for the optimum spot. We have our rules: nowhere near any large motorhomes with the inevitable generator noise, close enough, but not too close, to the restrooms and showers.

And then, we saw a site that held no one. The little card read, “Open”.

All our usual considerations were forgotten in our instant response to claim our new home.

It had been a long driving day. What we thought might happen (that we’d stumble onto a perfect park just outside of Portland, and after we’d seen the diner, it would now, of course (!) be only a mile or two from Tad’s.

Quelle surprise, none of this materialized.

Instead, the road dictated where we would be. By a happy accident of time and distance, we had discovered a completely off-grid site in a site of incredible beauty. No water hookup. No electrical. No showers. Pit toilets.

But, at $10.00/night, and with Kevin’s newly-hooked-up inverter, our topped-up propane tanks and our full water tank, we were completely self-sufficient. Turns out our little set up works very fine indeed.

The weather calmed and our after-dinner fire was the perfect ending to a day filled with interesting people met at random places and breathtaking geographical beauty.

 

 

And now, it’s Sunday morning.

The rain is steady on the roof of our Pod (oh, how I love to hear the rain while ensconced in our little home).

Kevin is working on his project on his laptop across from me. Classical music is playing on NPR. We thought we’d hike today, but, once again, the road, this time in the form of the weather, has decided the look of our day. I will write this post, perhaps pull out my art bin and create some new collage pieces, or maybe even crawl back under the quilt with a cup of tea and my deliciously large, A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara.

Later we think we’ll drive back along the Historic Highway for a bit. We want to pull in to all those waterfall sites, maybe head down to Hood River to the Hawaiian barbecue place that Polly, the Park Host told me about…

It has been just over two weeks of letting the world reveal itself around each corner. It is not unlike how we usually travel, but there is one large difference; this time we have no home waiting for our return.

Today, right here, right now, this is our only home. This spot right here in the deep wet greens of Wyeth State Park, sixty miles east of Portland, Oregon.

Yesterday the road reminded us of the truth of this life.  There is only forward. There is no back button on this plan.

Just like writing, the next letter, the next word, maybe even a possible answer, is always one blinking cursor space ahead.

Fill in the blank it beckons. Go ahead. Simply respond to the space ahead.