Internet  . . . in fact ALL services (including phone) are spotty to non-existent for vast swaths of the northern coast.  There are emergency call boxes every mile along the road so I guess this is normal.  In the event of a breakdown one would have to trudge to the nearest, and hope you’d picked the right direction.

Over breakfast of Corn Flakes and Granola, we opted for the Coast road.  Phoning ahead to book some overnight stays at wineries, and finding out that many County campsites had plenty of spots available.  A myriad of exotic places await — Illinois Valley . . .  Samoa Landing . . .  Trinidad.  No wonder Glen’s GPS tried sending directions for Bella Coola via Alaska! A wonderful twisty road lead out of town —  shady tunnels of evergreen, arbutus and shaggy Ponderosa Pines.   At the State border, Miss Google cheerfully announced, “welcome to California” seconds before a road-side sign requested we “come back to Oregon soon”.  So there, with the sun shining warmly, in the 100 feet or so of no-mans-land, we ate the last of our oranges and made lemonade from the one remaining lemon.  We can officially enter California.  All that effort was for naught though — the customs building was shut tight with a sign saying “Closed Today, Proceed with Caution!”

More steep hills — but less than before. Rocky red cliffs one side of the road. .  . the Smith River (!) tumbling and frothing its way on the other.  First sighting of Redwood trees — absolutely massive – like Cathedral Grove on steroids.  Made all the more impressive due to their proximity on the narrow road — one even had a chunk out of it to allow vehicles to pass!

Ocean views at Crescent City — huge rollers , their vapoury tops swept backwards.  Wide sandy beach very like our own Long Beach —  hardy surfers, dog walkers and people like us just sitting on a weathered log enjoying the sun . . . in our case consuming two of Creswell Bakery’s delicious pies.  Met several road crews making major repairs in the off-season.  Then, what we first thought was ocean mist became more evident as smoke . . .  most likely from fires inland around Sacramento.  Just seems odd that the wind was blowing east towards the coast.  Quite patchy and thick at times as it collected in the inlets and bays.  Hmm.  Camping in this would not be ideal – although we do have N95 masks!

Sign “Elk Viewing” . . . Oh, too late!  There they were on the side of the road munching grass happily right beside a wooden replica of an Elk.  Neither seemed to mind.

Our phone call to the Humbolt County campgrounds this morning proved invaluable (especially as all State Park offices appear to close at 4:00pm.)  A notice for Big Lagoon Campsite – quick, turn right!  Pot-holey hump-backed road with speed signs sternly stating ’10 MPH’ . . . we’d be lucky to maintain 5!  Rounding a corner, there were the 25 campsites — in among the trees and most with amazing views of the lagoon.  A huge rim of sand dunes separated the ocean from lagoon . . . but you could certainly hear the waves thundering and booming on the other side.  Riding down the road on a bicycle of every hue was a character one could only meet in California — the campground host!  Older gent, but of indiscriminate age, long beard and a woolly hat he welcomed us in and offered us the pick of all but two campsites . . .  one was already occupied with a tent . .  . the other reserved for a late arrival.  Shortly afterwards other campers trickled in . .  . tenters . . .  campers . . .  fancy RV . . .  one SUV came equipped with a full-sized mattress folded double on top!  I hope they had a tent as well.  A lady in a bright pink jacket peddled energetically around the camp, exercising her small black dog. “Hello” she exclaimed on each passing.

We’d left the trailer connected, so packing up the next morning was a piece of cake.  Just as we were leaving, the camp host trundled around the corner and waved.  “Can we take your photo?”  He seemed quite pleased and introduced himself in a polite southern drawl, “My name is Dude . . . that’s the name my parents gave me.”  Maybe he grew into the name, but it fitted perfectly!  A few miles on, we spotted a young man, backpack, cell phone and skateboard, being pulled along by his dog.  We’re definitely in California!

Approaching Eureka, the road was lined on the seaward side with old Eucalyptus trees.  Eureka turned out to be a quaint place, filled with beautifully restored Victorian houses . . . curlicues, turrets and stained glass windows.  One over-the-top building was some sort of private club, surrounded by manicured lawns, stately palms and pointy wrought iron fences with gates firmly shut. None of your Hoi Poloi  welcome.  Quite a contrast to the community of Samoa across the causeway.  An old lumber community with rows of small company houses . . .  once neglected but now being renovated and painted pleasing pastel colours.  An elementary school and playground, an historical maritime museum and restaurant, all have the makings of a lovely community.  Many of the small towns seem to thrive on a grid of one-way streets, and Eureka was no exception — however we managed to extricate ourselves, and chanced upon a fruit/veggie stall stacked with fresh local produce.  Three kinds of oranges, pomellos, lemons, several types of onion and squash, apples, garlic.  Our fridge is re-stocked.  On to the Redwood State Parks.

For some obscure reason, California has leased out its State and National campsite reservations to a third party.  One cannot make contact with an actual human and the website stoutly maintains that there are NO campsites available, anywhere, period. Can it really be that busy?  We arrived in some trepidation . . . . would there be room?  We had all 170 campsites to ourselves!! Which to choose!  Cindy the volunteer Parks person (retired) zoomed up in her official golf cart . . . only too pleased to have someone to talk to and break the monotony.  What she had to say about the reservations system is unprintable here.  Beautiful trails, massive, and I mean MASSIVE Redwoods abound – one stump dating back 1200 years!, trickling streams dappled sunlight . . . . and we’re the only ones here . . . apart from Cindy.  Oh wait . . . a pick up truck has just arrived and set up a tent waaay on the other side.  Incredibly peaceful . . . . wonder if this constitutes Tree Bathing?

Arms topped up with booster shots, our very own mobile bubble (trailer/caravan) and copious supplies of masks and sanitizer, a trip down south to hopefully warmer climes seemed a safer option for travel.  Initial plans for taking the Black Ball ferries and cutting 60 miles off the dreaded I-5 highway went out the window when CBC news announced another Trucker’s protest in Victoria — in front of the Parliament buildings and right outside the Ferry terminal the weekend we planned to leave! Hmph!  So, we resorted to BC ferries and spent the night at Glen’s sister’s on the Mainland — it was lovely to catch up after two years – a real bonus.

Sunday dawned sunny.  The US border was unusually quiet.  A pair of very pleasant guards, armed with our fist full of keys for the various locks and padlocks, did a quick check of the trailer and shiny new aluminum truck box containing our folding bikes and generator . . .  they especially liked the bikes!  Of course me still being a ‘landed innergrunt’ (permanent resident) I had to provide finger prints, an additional mugshot and fervent protestations to return to Canada before May 1st.  They also had to check that carrots and bell peppers were not on the prohibited list. . . but we’ll have to eat the oranges before reaching California. Passport duly stamped and back to the parking lot, where some poor souls were waiting forlornly as their mini van was being thoroughly searched. . .  personal belongings scattered far and wide.  Luck was with us . . . perhaps it was our honest faces . . . . more likely it was the bright orange folding bikes.   No self-respecting criminal would be seen with those!

Mount Baker gleamed crisply like a freshly iced Christmas Cake as we travelled south.  I don’t know what it is about Washington State highways, but they set up a resonance-bouncing between truck and trailer which becomes unmanageable at higher speeds — the jolts make normal speech virtually impossible –like talking through hiccups.  And despite monstrous billboards extolling their benefits, all T-Mobile stores kept well hidden until already past!  Guess you need a phone card to find one!!!
As in the past, the convenience of highway Rest Stops can’t be beaten for a quick over-nighter (no need to unhitch). However selecting a suitable one is crucial — a thick, treed barrier from the highway, and separated section for RVs and Transport trucks (who leave their engines running all the while) is essential.  Ear plugs provide the final ingredient for a peaceful night.

Early breakfast and on the road.   Past Boeing Field, and the massive, city-sized Joint Army/Airforce training centre Lewis-McChord-  which appears to go on for miles.  The Willamete valley is as flat as a pancake, the distant mountains providing a picturesque backdrop.  Vineyards aplenty, hazel nut trees with catkins dangling, blueberry farms, their red stems glowing.  The flatness gradually transformed into undulating grass-covered hills topped with swaths of darker woodland, sheep and newborn lambs dotted the slopes.  Apparently Linn County has over 1300 grass seed farms and claims it is the grass seed capitol of the world.  How would they know?. . . who counts the seeds, I wonder?

Sadly, the embankments leading into Portland are lined with tented homeless camps – an all-too-familiar sight in most places these days.  Service workers were battling manfully . . . . personfully? . . . to overcome the avalanche of garbage  sliding down to the freeway.

A constant stream of transporter trucks thundered along . . . .  shiny red or silver cabs, dusty mud-streaked blue and black models.  One stood out from the rest — a gleaming purple rig with every chrome surface polished to mirror quality.  Pride of ownership indeed.   Then we drove past a sign for Drain, Oregon .. . what a great place to hold a convention for Public Health Officers!

Just south of Eugene we stopped for gas and noticed a large billboard advertising  Creswell Bakery as a must stop.  https://www.creswellbakery.com/  Tiny town with one main street, a library and city hall we wondered if it would be worth it, but if you are in the neighbourhood . . . please DO NOT MISS this gem.  Been around since 2008 . . . part of the building looks like an old church hall.  Face masks required — you enter and place your order . . . are given an odd-looking round red ‘puck’ with lights and asked to wait outside for your ‘puck’ to buzz  – indicating your food is ready.   Outdoor picnic benches socially distanced in the sun, surrounded by vines and trees was not hard to take . . .  perhaps not quite so enchanting in the pouring rain, but then eating in your car would always be an option.   DO try the Chicken Hand Pies . . .  piping hot . . .  golden brown flaky pastry surrounded shredded and chunked chicken with a subtle amount of veggies and just the barest dash of salt.  We went back in for more to stash in the fridge for future lunches. Some outstanding Sourdough bread too. This is one of those memorable places you’d like to keep hidden in case it gets too popular.

A change in the landscape again . . . this time the scenery was distinctly more BC in appearance.  Steep hillsides cloaked in dark evergreens like crumpled eiderdowns with rushing creeks at their base.   Long inclines rising 2000 ft — now all those truck who had roared past us so easily, were reduced to a crawling, lumbering line.  Grant’s Pass —  a junction.  Do we continue on the I-5 into central California, or turn right and travel the coastal road.  There appear to be some forest fires inland, however the coast road could be foggy.  Decisions, decisions.  Will stay overnight and decide in the morning.