12th – 30th September 2019
Firstly, I apologise for the two month delay in getting around to publishing this final post. I guess that I just ran out of steam and post-travel life just took over. I hope that you can retain the enthusiasm for reading this last post, now that I have finally summoned the enthusiasm to write it. If you can remember, we had just left the Rockies……
Our first stop in British Columbia was in the delightful town with the first-rate name of Revelstoke. This is home to about 6500 people and is situated on the Columbia River, miles from anywhere, but connected to the rest of the world by the Canadian Pacific Railroad and the Trans-Canadian Highway. The town is surrounded by mountains, sits at the base of its own eponymous National Park (a ‘hikers paradise’), has a nearby fairly sizeable ski resort (which boasts North America’s ‘greatest vertical’ at 1,713 metres), and boasts a distillery, some shops and restaurants, a museum or two and an RV park a short 2km from its centre. This seemed a winning combination of attributes and it was also perfectly placed as a stop-off for us. We decided to spend five nights here as we had some time in hand. The other thing that Revelstoke has to be proud of is its location in the middle of the world’s only inland temperate rain forest. As fascinating as this fact may be, the operative word in this statement is ‘rain’. Having had more than three months of good summer weather, with only occasional and mostly night-time rain, Revelstoke was wet. Wet. Wet. Wet. Before the rain arrived we managed a walk into town to procure well overdue haircuts and even sat outside to enjoy a coffee. During this brief sunny and dry interlude we got talking to a couple who also lived in New Zealand having relocated from the UK and who were travelling through Canada in a car. We had much in common on paper but they seemed to be intent on being contrary on all subjects. We drank up and hastened away before either we both felt the urge to jump from the nearby bridge or push them off it. We had a very nice lunch in a recommended bar (popular with the Après Ski crowd in the winter) and stocked up with off-the-wall DVDs before heading home. It stayed dry long enough for a short pre-dinner campfire, and then IT arrived. The rain. 72 hours of solid, unrelenting rain. Nick managed to not leave Tin Can for nearly 48 of them until I instructed him that he had to brave the 20m dash and go and have a shower. I, at least, did the laundry and had a series of interesting conversations with fellow campers amid the machines and lint. There was a siege mentality brewing. Two thirds of the campsite was shut as many pitches were muddy quagmires and unusable. There were some miserable faces as the owners turned away RV after RV; people who had been driving all day through the monsoon and looked like they just wanted to stop the bus and start drinking. So after three days later the rain finally passed on, the sun came out again and peace and quiet was restored. Rain is very noisy on the roof and had been contributing to the madness slightly.
We emerged into the world like butterflies from chrysalises and cycled back into town. After a quick visit to the Railway Museum we went for a walk to take in the historic ski jump that put Revelstoke on the map in the ski world. The original jump, appropriately called Big Hill, was built in 1916 and was a natural jump, basically a very steep hill with a narrow and exhausting path to climb up followed by a death defying hurtle down the run before the jump, the glide and the (hopefully safe) landing. By 1933 four world records had been set on the hill and in 1948 it was upgraded and renamed after Nels Nelsen, a local boy and jumping superstar. In its heyday it was well and truly on the ski jump tournament map and a mecca for the brave/foolhardy, despite never having a lift. It hosted its last competition in 1975, after which it closed and the Trans Canadian highway was carved through the landing zone. Now it plays host to a short and challenging walking trail from town which winds up the same route as the jumpers would have taken, carrying skis. It was hard enough carrying ourselves. The jump hill and judges tower are slowly being reclaimed by nature as trees fill in the gaps in the rainforest where the slope used to be. At the top there is still a fantastic view down into the valley below and a truely low tech ‘virtual reality’ experience of what it would be like to launch from the base of the jump is provided by ‘Nels’ Knickers’, a mould of his ski-suit leaning out over the hill into which one can insert oneself if one should desire. I did. Vertiginous Nick did not. Walking down was less strenuous but steep enough to remain perilous.
Our next stop after Revelstoke was the town of Vernon. The road wound through the beautiful but ever dwindling mountains, alongside lakes and the ever-present Trans Canadian Railway. In Vernon we had arranged to stay with a couple called Mark and Dawn and their two young boys. Mark is second cousin to our very good friend Ed, and although we had met them at Ed’s nuptials 15 years ago (a fact proven by a photo of the four of us together that Mark unearthed from somewhere) we were essentially complete strangers. That aside, we had directions to their lovely home, were trusted to let ourselves in before everyone else arrived home and were hosted with real warmth and instant friendship for two days.
Their home is gorgeous, overlooking a large lake and surrounding hills. Vernon sits at the northern end of the Okanagan Valley, wine country. Dawn kindly took us on a vineyard tour, with her delightful mother as a ride-along and we bought them lunch along the way, which seemed only fair. Both evenings were filled with good food, moderate (to slightly excessive) amounts of great wine and lots of easy chat. By the time we woke up on our last day here, the household had all left for their day’s endeavours. We packed up and let ourselves out. Our next stop was a few hours away, the Canadian border town of Osoyoos, gateway back to America.
The drive to Osoyoos was stunning. The road followed the Okanagen Valley south, passing flat calm lakes surrounded by soft hillscapes and many vineyards. The one night that we had booked here was to be our last night in Canada and the last night sleeping in Tin Can on this trip. I had carefully calculated the number of days that we had to spend in Canada and out of the USA in order to remain below the threshold for becoming a US tax resident. 20th September was the earliest day we could re-enter. That was tomorrow.
We had a perfectly manicured concrete site in a lakeside park mainly populated by seasonal campers many with fancy set-ups involving gazebos, decks, sheds, plant pots etc. We went for a stroll around the park and along the lakeshore in the afternoon. It wasn’t warm enough to consider a swim in the lake, but it looked lovely. We had a random encounter with a fellow camper and his large black rabbit in the evening. He was taking it for a walk after he got home from work. It was just hopping around with him, not needing a lead. I made the mistake of going to chat with him (because it was so random and I needed to meet the rabbit…) and then had to endure far more idle rabbit-associated chit-chat than I was prepared for. I suspect he was a bit devoid of human company. Man cannot talk with rabbit alone.
Crossing borders is alway a little stressful and this was the first time we were going to try and get back into the US with the rig. We would have to declare our alcohol and most fresh food is not allowed across. We had a classic ‘fridge scrapings’ last meal, a digestive treat assembled from all and anything in the fridge. My mother’s name for these creations is ‘canal-bank stew’ which has its origins in the ‘last supper’ of a couple of canal boat holidays that we took in my childhood. The end result is varied, but always edible. (Those that complain go hungry.) Alternative names could be ‘like-it-or-lump-it lasagne’, ‘peculiar pie’ or ‘ indiscriminate fried rice’. We did a pretty good job of eating up. Only a small amount went in the bin after we had made a packed lunch for our journey the next day. There was no reason why we wouldn’t be allowed back into the USA the next day, but despite that I didn’t sleep very well and was glad to be on our way in the morning.
The day started with a comprehensive tank washout in preparation for Tin Can going back into storage. Living with tanks for waste ‘grey’ water and ‘black’ toilet waste is a fact of life on the road and one that we live quite happily with. (For some reason, managing the tanks is my job. Not quite sure how that came to pass.) Aside from some isolated ‘fallout’ incidents associated with not having a baldy clue what we were doing in the beginning, rapidly learning a few idiosyncrasies of the camper’s drainage and the infamous ‘poopsicle’ incident of New Year in Moab, Utah, it is a fairly simple process that nowadays doesn’t cause tears or dirty feet. I was, however, looking forward to getting back to living with mains drainage again. Tanks done we hit the road and ten minutes later we were at the border.
Passports and Visas: In order (We skirted around the ‘homeless and jobless’ situation. That tends to trigger some unwanted scrutiny by border officials)
Wine beer and spirits ready to declare and pay duty on: They didn’t even ask.
Camper inspection to ensure no concealed humans or animals: Passed
Ham and egg sandwiches in picnic: Permitted
Four elderly cherry tomatoes in picnic: CONFISCATED.
We surrendered the tomatoes to an armed border officer who breezily mentioned, whilst scrutinising my passport, that her mother was born on the same day as me, and feeling old and tomato-less, with imminent scurvy upon us, we re-entered the US of A and continued our drive down the amazingly beautiful Okanagan Valley.
Our time in Canada had been a very lovely and stress-less eight weeks of cruising through some of the world’s most beautiful landscapes, meeting some great people and consuming excessive quantities of poutine, but we were strangely pleased to be back in America.
As we travelled south through Eastern Washington the wine gave way to fruit trees groaning with ripe apples and three hours later, after eating our final picnic on the shores of the mighty Columbia River at Brewster, we arrived at our destination, East Wenatchee. Apple Capital of the world. It wasn’t the apples that brought us here. This is where Lori lives, and this is where Big Dave and Tin Can will be living for the next six months too.
Our ability to easily undertake our adventures in America has been entirely down to the friendship and support of our friends Lori and Dean. With Lori’s help we had managed to find suitable storage in East Wenatchee and the next few days were set aside for cleaning and packing up. We had some beautiful sunny and dry weather which was perfect. With the rig parked on her driveway we set to work.
Nick did the outside, I the inside. A good division of labour and actually quite nice to have some ‘time apart’ for a few hours. Our storage this time was not climate controlled, so prepare for the inevitable sub-freezing temperatures of the forthcoming winter we had to winterise Tin Can, emptying all the fluids from the tanks and pipework and flushing through several gallons of pretty pink, non toxic anti-freeze solution. That job done we did a final close-up, and headed up the hill to the storage unit, with Lori following on. It was an anxious moment as we were not 100% sure that we would fit in. The unit door was 12ft high, and we had done an ‘accurate’ measurement a couple of months previously that made us 11ft 10in. It was going to be very tight. We had to find a long pole to hold the roller door fully up and in the end we fitted in with a mere (slightly stressful) 1 inch of clearance over the air-con unit. A close call. So Big Dave and Tin Can were successfully tucked up into their next hibernation nest and thus ended our third tincantravels adventure.
Bidding farewell to our trusty chariot is always a bit poignant so Lori cheered us up with a trip to the nearby gun range. What better way to take our minds off things than furnishing us with a 9mm hand gun each and letting us fire off a few hundred 9mm rounds. It worked a treat and was another American Cultural Experience checked off. We were also pretty good for a pair of Limeys.
After spending a few days with Lori, who constantly humbles us with her hospitality, generosity and friendship, we took the shuttle bus over the Cascade Mountains to spend some time with Dean in Seattle before we flew out. The highlight of these few days was a spectacular twenty four hours during which he took us to visit his family holiday cottage on San Juan Island, about 130km to the north. Now this would have been a fantastic trip by car and ferry, but instead Dean, who has been flying for decades and recently obtained his commercial licence, charted a Cesna and flew us there.
What a treat! After a 45 minute flight we landed in the tiny town of Friday Harbor, walked 500m to the island’s car rental outfit, procured the smallest four-seater whizz-bang car and drove ten minutes for lunch. A plain old cafe meal, this was not to be. It was a magical place called Wescott Bay Shellfish company, a destination establishment housed in a wooden clad building, overlooking a rocky sheltered bay. Here they sell you fresh plump oysters by the dozen that you shuck yourself and then either eat raw, or dot with blue cheese or flavoured butter and then cook on the numerous hot charcoal grills scattered around the garden. Crusty bread and bottles of rosé are also for sale and this made for a blimin’ marvellous and memorable lunch.
The day continued with a stroll around the Roach Harbor. This small bay has a sizeable but picturesque marina stuffed full of pleasure boats of all shapes and budgets, but mostly large and impressive. The grocery store sold us the makings for our dinner and we had sunset drinks on the small deck at the cottage, gazing out at the bay. It was a beautiful spot.
In the morning we went back to Roache Harbor to have brunch at the harbour-side cafe, took one look at the queue which snaked out the door and down the dock, went back to the shop to buy bacon, eggs and bread, and went home again. Far preferable than waiting for an hour. We cooked, ate, cleaned up, dropped the car back, walked back to the air strip, jumped back in the plane and flew home. It was such a fantastic end to our trip, and Thank You Dean!
A day or so later he continued to be a ‘jolly good friend’ and dropped us off at the international airport so we could catch our flight out. I had carefully calculated this meant that we had spent 112 days in the USA in 2019, our maximum allowance to stay non-tax resident. This left no scope for a cancelled or delayed flight, but we left on time on a flight back to the UK via Iceland. The captain suggested that we leave our window shades open overnight and we were rewarded with a short display of the Northern Lights. Now that really was quite a finale.
So we are in the UK for the winter, making plans for the next trip which will start in May sometime.
Alaska is calling!