Four Wheel Camper About to Break Out of Slump

Where's the Four Wheel Camper? Sadly, it  is no where near Blossom Bar on Oregon's Wild and Scenic Rogue River, pictured above in late June. But the Toyota Tundra that hauls the raft also carries the Four Wheel camper, and it cannot do two things at once.  Early this summer we enjoyed several river trips in succession, and it was impractical to mount the camper on the pickup. Thus while we are rafting and having a wonderful time, the camper is home alone, sulking.

There it is, poor thing, dwarfed by landscaping and stranded on
sawhorses awaiting its next trip.

Our last Four Wheel outing was in May to visit grandchildren who live in a city. As usual, we popped the lid in the backyard and the Four Wheel became a playhouse for grandson, Noah, four, and now also little sister, Hadley,  age one. Young children LOVE campers, and ours has lots of knobs and drawers and lights and a radio/CD/iPod player that drive them insane.

We didn't buy the Four Wheel so we could camp in our son's backyard and provide a playhouse, and also endure  the cacophony of helicopters and police sirens,  barking dogs and neighbors with bad taste in music all night. But it works way better than paying buckets of money to stay in creepy casino hotels, and we kinda like the kids raising a ruckus, especially since they head inside at night, and we get our queen-sized bed to ourselves.

             Let's hope she doesn't jostle the commode on her left. And yes, thank you,
she IS adorable.

Now we're talkin! The camper is snugged into the truck bed, has a new carrier up top to haul gear for the months-long all-weather trips we're plotting, plus some new hydraulic help for lifting the lid. 

PK installed the external hydraulic assists, front and back, which make it possible for one person to pop the top and bring it down unassisted. No more snarling and snapping as we occasionally do, when we jockey for position in a tight space, and 1,2, 3 LIFT!

The Four Wheel is ready, but it's still eight days before we can get away to Washington's North Cascades, San Juan islands, and the Olympic Peninsula. Other travel plans are nebulous but persistent and include taking the Four Wheel from our home on the West Coast USA to East Coast to visit family. Then to Guatemala. Why? Check this out.  We want to volunteer gardening expertise there, or anything else needed.

Traveling cross country and to Central America will require months away. We're retired! What's the problem with taking off any time we damn well please?  It has to do with family obligations, mostly, and, for the time being,  we DO have a garden that requires TLC.

PREVIOUS FOUR-WHEEL CAMPER POSTS

Oregon Coast Getaway with Four-Wheel Camper

Steens Mountain with Four-Wheel Camper

Oregon's Illinois River Getaway

Girlfriends' Getaway to the Oregon Coast

Sunshine at the gorgeous Oregon coast with women who have shared decades of friendship celebrate birthdays (3 turn 60 this year) and the joy of life. Left to right, Nancy Fleischman, Marcy Landis, Paula Stone, Joanne Costantino, Gail Frank, Mary Walgrave, Dawn Welch, Chris Costantino, Pat Bange. In case you're wondering, I was behind the camera. But happily!

Girlfriends can be the healing balm for life's cruel wounds. Sob. They can provide shoulders for weeping, hands for holding, and ears for floods of feelings and fears. They will listen to your bitching, commiserate when you have woes, and nod in agreement when you need holding up. We need each other.

On the other hand, girlfriends can also be fantastic, crazy, epic FUN! I am so blessed with friendships, many of 30, even 40 years, duration. Too many girlfriends are far far away: Susan(s), Grace, Bev, Laurie, Patty, Terry, Jeanne, JoAnn, Michele, Margo—but I wish they all could have been along for the friendship ride the past weekend. Below are a few of way-too-many photos. If you want more, links to albums follow.

Making our way from our fantastic oceanfront rental near Bandon to our private beach. Actually, there's  no such thing as a private beach in Oregon because some long-ago visionaries, to whom we are forever grateful, went to the trouble to make sure nobody can "own" one. But access to this beach is limited, hence it was ours alone. The 30-second video below tells the tale. I haven't learned to edit videos, but most of it is lovely.

The HuffPost ran a recent blog entitled Five Reasons Why Every Woman Needs a Girls' Weekend.  The woman who wrote it is a lot younger, apparently, than our group as she included "boy talk" as a reason. We don't need no stinkin' men to have a great time, and we don't need to talk about them, either. (Ironically, many of us became friends because of our husbands' annual men's trip, going now on for 30 years! The same 10 guys. Remarkable, I think. I am so happy for PK that he has these long-term lifeline friendships. Just like most women I know.)

Friendship and fun. That's the story for the female flock pictured above. We had a couple new faces and were missing several regulars. (Don't worry. We toasted you all. More than once, I'm sure.) Speaking of toasting, we drink a lot of wine. One friend told about girl trips she's taken where the mostly retired-teacher participants drink very little. Instead they smoke pot. Ha!

Historically, this groups heads over to Mt. Bachelor near Bend, Oregon, to ski for a few spring days. But over the years, skiing became less attractive to some, and we shook out into two groups: skiers and shoppers. A coast trip brought us together. And then some.

Paula enjoys a little solitude.

Patty, Mary and Nancy yuck it up.

The Rental. Even better than it looks, and with a stunning ocean view.

Shore Acres state park is just down the road . We enjoyed the formal gardens and
the wave-lashed cliffs.

It was a jungle gym with little girls cavorting. Little girls ages 50-something to almost 70.

Gail had the idea for us to catch some Dungeness crabs with hopes of having a great appetizer, but no such luck. Lucky, however, for the two crabs of legal size that we  ended up liberating. 

Waiting to pull up the crab pots on a pier in the port of Charleston. A little beer and some really terrible but tasty junk food—jalapeno cheese crunchy thingies—helped pass the time. 

Patty's eye beams penetrate her sunglasses as she clutches her beer
and calls forth the crabs.

The Stone sisters check out the latest crabby bunch hauled up from the bay bottom. 

Just one steep slippery patch required we accept assistance at the bottom of the trail to the beach. Alpha women do not like to accept assistance. But it seemed preferable to a red-dirt butt.

Tossing a baci ball onto the beach for our upcoming game.

Throwing into the wind on a beach sloping to the sea complicated baci ball accuracy.

About 10 minutes of relaxation before moving on to the next fun thing. I think it was shopping.

Yes, we are women and we do shop. A group feeding frenzy in a chic boutique made for a happy shop owner and heated-up credit cards. There's something about trying on a garment that costs way too much, then parading before your friends to a chorus of ooooohhhhs and aaaaahhhhhs. Anyway. I have three new tops. I think I need to revisit the year during which I bought nothing new, except, of course, for food and sanitary supplies.

We made a haul shopping on a blustery afternoon at Devon's Boutique 
in Bandon, a surprisingly classy shop for a tiny coastal burg.

Learning the electric slide, one more time.

Gourmet meals are part of the deal in a take-turns cooking plan where two-person teams each plan and make one meal. This is a French fish stew called bouride. Fabulous. Thanks, Dawn and Patty.

The birthday girls in a blurry shot. Only a few days, weeks, or months
remain for them to enjoy being 50-something. Someone else is enjoying her last
months of separation from being 70. Moi. 

Frenetic game of pass-the-paddle ping pong. 

Gail was one of three birthday girls during the "year of the horse." 

Group dance to Mustang Sally made for lots of trotting action to Wilson Pickett's beat.

Wanna see more pics? Here you go.  And more? They just keep going. One more?  Clearly, I was out of control. 

Serendipity then and now

Serendipity officially means accidental good fortune. When I started this post, I intended to write about January gardening. That took me, somehow, to Africa and travel, and then to discontent with my ordinary life and then to childrearing, marriage, and the march of time. And back again. You'll find no gardening here.

 Serendipity—a pleasurable outcome of  brain exploration translated to fingers on the keyboard.  Writing.

 Ever since returning from Africa in mid-October, I've been discontented with ordinary life. No one is cooking for me. No one is driving me around. No one is concerned minute-to-minute with my entertainment. (Thank you, Kara Blackmore and TIA.) There are no giraffes, elephants, lions, gorillas, rhinos, impalas, springboks, cape buffalos, chimps, hippos, exotic birds or even crocodiles parading or posing for my enjoyment.

Oops. Forgot to mention zebras, who seemed eager to have their picture taken.

There's also a terrible absence of drifts of exotic flowers, and forests consisting of what look like giant houseplants. 

Pincushion proteas, indigenous to the Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden in Cape Town, South Africa, is among 7,000 species thriving in one of the world's great botanic gardens. We spent nearly four hours exploring the eye-blasting magic at the foot of the famous Table Mountain.

Sometimes in Uganda or in South Africa—which I haven't blogged about yet —you can't decide where to look. There's so much to see, so much to do. And the people. Suffice it to say that ordinary life for most Ugandans is different from mine. Their realities make me embarrassed about the luxuries of my privileged never-had-to-think-about-food-or-water ordinary blue-eyed life. Also makes me ponder, what do we really need?

This beautiful Ugandan teenager is making her fifth one-mile round trip from her home to the Nile River balancing 50 pounds of water, which must be boiled at least an hour to be potable. Note that her balance is so good the jerry can lacks a plug. Such are the skills necessary for survival. 

Back in rural Southern Oregon in the dead of winter, I am having to work at being delighted, excited, awed or inspired, as if those are the states-of-being I expect or, more importantly, deserve. That's what Africa did to me. I got accustomed to daily delight, excitement, awe and inspiration. I can tell you, it's not a bad way to live.

Except for a couple spectacular days at the Oregon coast in mid-December, (photos here), dullsville is where I'm at now.  Usually, when returning from a "holiday" as vacations are called in South Africa, I am ready to be home. This time, not. I'm restless, resurrecting that irresistible urge to be on the move that spurred me back in the early 1970s, before babies and jobs and house payments tethered us.

 I say "us" because I've been partners with the same man for going on 41 years. We have our own early histories, but at this point, our shared time predominates. We've been together a couple decades longer than the ages we were when we met. Who knows when you commit to someone that this can happen? If you're lucky, it does.

In Mexico 2006

When our first child arrived in 1977, the itchy feet gave way to nesting and to kid-loving to the center of my being and back. The reason most parents can put up with sleepless nights and toddlers screaming in the grocery store, is that kid-love consumes them.

Chris, left, and Quinn Korbulic, 1999

I love our adult sons, but not as viscerally as when they were babies, toddlers, young children, and even despicable (sometimes) teenagers. They're cut loose and my oh my, who they have become pleases me so. How I adore them still. We won't even get into the grandchildren. Another time.

Back in the day, and besotted with kid-love, I was content with camping and rafting and the occasional two-week summer vacation along with the pleasure and pain of raising children, sustaining a marriage, developing a writing/editing career, and getting acquainted with the Earth in our backyard: the garden, the Rogue River and environs.

I often told myself, and others who would listen, that there's more than one way to travel. Explore your life and journey philosophically, if you can't get out there into the world geography. Having two kids, two jobs, little money, and two or three weeks vacation per annum, I embraced the philosophy route. Time flew. It flapped its wings and dive bombed year after year, pecking me on the head, "You're another year older!"

Now time is pecking me in the eyes, dammit. Get away! Slow the hell down!

Still, I don't regret any of it. I would never give up having raised our sons because both are gifts that keep on giving. And life has come full circle with me being the touchstone for my 98-year-old mom who is in assisted living one mile away.

However. I'm now thinking ours would be a great place to be coming back to. Someday. In the meantime, I will continue to appreciate the small things, and large, that have made this piece of ground home for more than 40 years. It won't be long before we'll be on road longterm and so glad to have a piece of the Earth to settle back into, as birds returning from migration.

Ironically, as I was working on this post, I excavated, from the bottom of a trunk, a diary from 1972. Here's something I wrote August 24 of that year... I was 28 years old.

Driving over the Big Horn Mountains. Stoned. Looking at cows through binoculars and talking about time. A little poem:  

I'll travel til there's no wind left in my soul. Then I'll be old. 

Well, now I AM old, so I'll say the same thing today except for one word:

I'll travel til there's no wind left in my soul.

 Then I'll be dead. 

Leeks in all their glory in our garden. What you can't see or hear are the bees. The bees. Hundreds of bees. Maybe as many bees as there are in all of Africa. Right in my own backyard. Just in case.

Oregon Coast Getaway with Four Wheel Camper

This is what you don't want to see when you visit the Oregon coast—a band of
thick fog sitting on Highway 101. It bodes ill.

Because when you see that fog bank ahead, here's what the

usually stunning scenery looks like. 

PK and I are always ready to charge off in our little Four Wheel pop-up camper, if even for a few days. Since the Four Wheel is the self-proclaimed "only true off-road camper," and we chose it so we could go places people driving boxcar-sized RV units can't, we usually shun massive campgrounds and opt for Forest Service camps, or we tuck into undeveloped pull-outs, cliff overhangs and shorelines. We weren't entirely successful in crowd avoidance during our recent two-night trek to Oregon's southern coast, however. More on that below.

When we left for the coast a couple weeks ago, we were fleeing the heat. We'd endured triple-digit temps alternating with high-nineties for what seemed like forever, but was really only most of July.  (Now we're living in smoke from numerous forest fires. See previous post if you like depressing stuff.)

This beach is in Northern California just a few miles from the Oregon border. We considered camping in the deserted nearby parking area in the spirit of our dear little camper, but dang, it was chilly, windy, and smelled of rotting fish. Also, fog was rolling in. Sometimes we have to practice tough love with the camper.

The Southern Oregon/Northern California coast is famously cool when the inland valleys are roasting. We left the ranch sweltering in 100+ temps and two hours later were shivering on the beach (alone, of course) with stiff winds challenging the worthiness of our wind jackets. We wanted out of the valley heat, but not in to coastal chill, wind, and fog.

 We ended up about 12 miles inland on the Chetco River just outside of Brookings, Oregon, completely out of the fog and into perfect weather. This is a Forest Service camping area, but without formal sites. There may have been as many as 50 people around, but we couldn't hear them.

We couldn't see them, either. We like this. (It looks like PK is
staring at the trees, but the Chetco River is the blackness beneath the trees.)

We weren't offended when a sweet little family used the swimming hole in front of our camp. 

Camping is a "special occasion" offering an excuse for drinking wine. I don't need much of an excuse, of course, but there are worse things. The slanted light did wonders for our plastic glasses. 

Easy dinner, mostly from the garden. Simple cucumber salad,

fried spuds with zucchini, onions, chard and basil, and Trader Joe's
hot Italian sausage.  

Next day we were ready for another go at the coast, but alas, the fog persisted and, for the most part, hid the Oregon coast's spectacular beauty.

This was the view from atop Cape Sebastian, which is usually mind-blowing. 

We stopped for lunch at the picturesque Griff's restaurant on the dock at Port Orford, having read positive reviews on Yelp! PK gave thumbs up to his fish and chips. My crab Louis ($17!!) was dinner-salad sized, came with a packet of Ritz crackers (!!) and left me hungry and crabby (hahaha). 

Here we are at the second-night camp, cheek to jowl with cold grumpy campers on both sides, at Bullard's Beach State Park. Oregon has a great state parks system, but our camper does not like super developed and crowded campgrounds.Bullard's Beach has more than 300 sites plus a bunch of yurts and an equestrian camp. Sites are neatly divided by vegetation, but it didn't work for us. 

The indignities! The Four Wheel camper (she needs a name!) gets embarrassed when out of her element. We can get by without power and water hook-ups for several days, but we use them when available, especially when we've paid for them. The white bucket catches sink water. Having campers directly across the way and on either side is, well, just not fun.

PK on the last steps of a mile+ trail from camp to the beach. 

Another beach to ourselves! At least 600 people, probably more like 1,000, were in the campground, but truthfully, this beautiful beach wasn't that inviting and I don't blame them for sticking close to their RVs. The temperature differential between camp and the beach was probably 20+ degrees, so people we saw along the trail were mostly underdressed. A tee shirt is not going to do the trick here. That's grey fog blowing in on a stiff ocean breeze. Sand is skittering across the beach, and I guess we gave it five minutes. Or less. The Oregon coast isn't like California with nearly naked people frolicking in the surf (Here you could die! And you would most assuredly need a wetsuit.) The Oregon coast in July .... unknown to tourists who have not visited during summer months.... is often chilly, windy, and foggy. My sister came all the way from Minnesota one summer, traveled the Oregon coastline from north to south, and didn't see the ocean for more than a few minutes. Best time to visit? Late August and September. Then you can get by with shorts and tee shirts and the Oregon coast will blow your mind and make your eyes and your heart ache at the beauty of it all.

More posts about Southern Oregon/Northern California

Bear Trip on the Rogue River

There You Have - The Mighty Rogue!

Camping and Cooking on the Rogue

Quick Getaway - Crater Lake

Oregon's Illinois River with Four-Wheel Camper