Las Vegas, Nevada to Portland, Oregon

Soundtrack:

‘Get Your Kicks on Route 66′ – Nat King Cole

‘California’ – Something For Kate

‘San Francisco’ – Scott McKenzie

‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco’ – Tony Bennett

‘Cold Cold Change’ – Midnight Oil

‘Foggy Highway’ – Paul Kelly

SK: We headed west out of Vegas and all breathed a sigh of relief as we left the neon behind. The freeway cleared, the ‘burbs filled with those servicing the gambling industry dropped away, and we had desert all around. We stopped for breakfast at Boulder City, the kind of town that you’d be proud to call home; an impressive foil to its bigger, brasher neighbour. We ate generous serves of pancakes at historical Mel’s Diner, established over 70 years ago, and then spent a small fortune at the Boulder City Post Office shipping home some of our souvenirs from Asia and LA.

Traffic increased and slowed the closer we got to Hoover Dam, and soon we discovered why.  We became part of a queue of cars pulled over by uniforms inspecting vehicles to protect the site (supposedly) from terrorist attack. What did we have in the roof pack? Camping gear. Can it be inspected? Sure. So Danny climbed up in the desert heat, unzipped the pack, the Inspector climbed up, saw that indeed the pack was filled with camping gear (in closed plastic tubs and bags), and waved us through. We remarked to each other that this was the first time in four countries that the pack had been inspected, and a cursory inspection it was.

We admired the dam structure, acknowledged the engineering feat, avoided the crowds as best we could and then rolled on.

We detoured off the freeway to spend some time on Route 66. Appropriate songs were played (‘Get Your Kicks’ et al), and we stopped briefly in Seligman, home to the Route 66 Association of Arizona, with a main street full of fins and chrome. The movie ‘Cars’ had an impact here as some of the old vehicles on the street had eyes painted on the windscreens!

(Pic: Seligman, AZ)

It was about this time that we noticed that one member of the party was not admiring the scenery as much as the others. Maddy had her head stuck in the fifth Harry Potter book at the expense of the American experience. Instead we got a running commentary about what was happening to Dumbledore. She was instructed to admire the scenery at least once every hour.

It was getting late, so instead of attempting the drive up to the Grand Canyon, we pulled up at the Kaibab Lake National Park and set up camp. The Canyon would wait for the next day. At Kaibab we met Karen and Kevin, a great couple from Ballarat, on a road trip from Canada, and enjoyed their company over a cup of tea and fig newtons. We hope to catch up with them in Europe.

(Pic: Camping again, Kaibab)

We had promised the kids this canyon would be indeed grand, and as it had been eighteen years since we’d last been here, I hoped that my memory wasn’t going to let me down. We set up camp in one of the few available spaces within the Canyon Park (remember, this is school holidays), and then headed for the rim. It was magnificent. And the kids were duly impressed by the scale. We spent our time there exploring the rim, learning about geology and local history and sat in on a Ranger talk about wildlife.

(Pic: Danny and Raffy at the Grand Canyon)

DB: We drove into Utah and camped at a small town called Kanab. Utah must be one of the strangest places on earth. Picturesque, serene and geographically diverse, and almost all of its human inhabitants certified card-carrying god botherers. Which is not necessarily a criticism, just an observation. It’s something about earnest religious types that makes me nervous: I am often tempted to have a conversation with them about life, God and the universe (as well as that pesky ‘evolution’ thing that keeps bobbing up), but have never got round to it. I’d love to drop in words like “dinosaurs” or “genetic blueprint” to see what reaction I’d get.

We happened to wake up to Pioneers’ Day, a day that is considered a public holiday at least in Utah and studiously celebrates the successes of the European pioneers while at the same time adroitly omitting any references to the original inhabitants of this land. As we drove through beautifully green undulating countryside, dotted with cows and utes, we noticed that streets were lined with American flags on the pavement (sorry, footpath), and most businesses were closed. There were also flags posted throughout Cedar Canyon.

In Cedar City we were able to get a couple of coffees at a large cavernous café, and it all became clear when I read that this very premises served as a revival church on the weekends, complete with raised stage, lighting and PA system.

American patriotism, or nationalism, was beginning to become a little unnerving. Hey, love your country to your heart’s content, I say, but I began to wonder what would happen in some of these parts if you didn’t actively participate. What if your house didn’t have a flag pole baring the stars and stripes, or if your business didn’t have some grand proclamation about supporting the Boys Over There, or your car didn’t have a “God Bless America” bumper sticker? Would there be a backlash? Would it be legal? Would you go straight to hell in a hand-basket? Of course, far from all of the US engages in patriot mania, but it has a much more fervent feel to it in places like Utah and elsewhere far from major cities.

The next day we crossed back over the border. Tonopah in Nevada is a town doing it tough. Once a prosperous mining town, it failed to reinvest in its own legacy due to most of the money belonging to others from big cities elsewhere. Grand buildings that once were banks, posh hotels and offices were now deserted; it seemed most of the residents left were retired with nowhere else to go. Now, most houses and businesses were boarded up. So, to make it interesting, we chose the Clown Motel. Why clown? Well, there’s a big illuminated clown at the street entrance, there are clown dolls in the reception office and clown prints and paintings in the rooms. The connection to Tonopah? We are none the wiser. Still, it had most of the prerequisites: beds, bathroom, parking and it was clean. Pity those who are clown phobic.

It had been a big drive of about six and a half hours through classic American desert topography: dry, desolate, punctuated by monolithic hills, cliffs, crags and mountains. The colour and vegetation seemed to change every few minutes. Saltpans, shimmering valleys and windswept rock faces described the outside world as an eerie yet profound existence. We also found ourselves driving on the Extra Terrestrial Highway (no, not marked on any maps) which is the road running along the military site of Area 51. Bill Hicks, we salute you. In Tonopah, we were all happy to take our leave of our admirably performing truck and stretch the legs through what was left of town.

The drive was made even more enjoyable by our selections on the iPod, including podcasts of Melbourne’s Triple R Breakfasters and All Over The Shop, and the ABC’s Coodabeen Champions. In a few days we would also get to Radio National’s Late Night Live and our good buddy Damien’s Law Report. It’s a very strange sensation listening to Melbourne Radio while barrelling down a mostly deserted highway in Nevada. I had mentioned on-air to Michelle on Triple R’s ‘Spoke’ program during one of my phone-ins that listening to Fee, Sam and Michael speaking with Tim Winton while hurtling through rural Thailand made it feel like Punt Road.

We headed out for dinner and found our choices limited. One place seemed to include meat in everything and not serve the cold beer that Sandy and I were after, but the other was a Mexican cantina. This was a hit, even though the descriptions of the meals on the menu made them all sound the same. Still, tasty and light on the hip pocket. We slept well.

(Pic: The long road to Yosemite)

Yosemite National Park, like the Grand Canyon, was packed to the gills. It is summer holidays (sorry, “vacation”) and all of America was somewhere else. We were unable to secure a campsite on-line and we were a little nervous about being somewhat homeless for the night. All cabins, rooms and dorms were long ago filled, so we had to wing it.

One campground, it turned out, had one spot left. It was at the other end of the park – some 45 minutes away, and they would hold it for us – theoretically. So, before taking in any of the magnificent sights of one of the world’s great national parks, we screamed through Yosemite, cursing fat-arsed RVs (behemoth camper vans that invariably tow cars along as well) to get out of the way, hoping it would still be there when we arrived.

The main road through Yosemite is a thrill on its own; narrow, winding and hilly, with every turn presenting a new vista of awe-inspiring nature. One aspect though told me that not all was entirely well. While driving very close to rock walls I could hear a high-pitched whistling noise echoing back at me through my open window. It wasn’t an eagle or a child’s toy. It was one of the wheel bearings. Nasty things, bearings, if they aren’t treated well. Last thing I wanted was to see my front wheel bouncing away into trees as we careered down some picture-perfect embankment. I eased off the accelerator a bit and we made it to our site. We’d get the bearings checked at Los Altos in a couple of days when we get a service while staying at Sandy’s cousins’.

(Pic: Bridal Veil Falls, Yosemite)

The bear-scare is a hot topic at Yosemite: many a story of bears clambering into tents and cars in search of an easy feed. Campsites are provided with bear lockers to store all food and sundry items that might tempt a hungry Humphrey – we learned that they are not only partial to the contents of a standard Esky, but they also don’t mind a nibble on baby wipes, for some reason. This interested the children no-end, but of course, ultimately, we ensured all tasty temptations were locked away before bed.

We made time to marvel at the imposing granite walls of the valley, swam in the icy cold streams, and clambered over waterfalls. Maddy began her North American count of cascading water in national parks entitled “Bridal Veil Falls” – current total five.

We were still travelling without our Carnet de Passage – our truck’s passport and visa, if you will. After numerous emails and phone calls, we were still assured by the shipping receiver that all was in order and it would be sent overnight to our choice of destination as soon as he received it back from customs. This would be Sandy’s cousins’ Jon, Holly, and their young children Nathan and Kelsey in Los Altos, back in California. The plan was to lob into their place, collect the Carnet, spend a couple of nights catching up, and head north.

Nice plan, in theory.

Jon and Holly welcomed us with open arms and gave us the run of their beautiful place. We washed ourselves, for the first time in a few days, and our clothes, and organised our truck to be serviced. We hung out, picked blackberries, explored the local area and watched the kids play non-stop. Maddy and Raffy enjoyed being in a family home again. It had been some time since they had space to spread out in, and new toys and activities to explore and do. Meeting their cousins for the first time was a treat, and gave them a sense of connectedness with their extended family, and with the country.

(Pic: Raffy, Maddy, Jon and Nathan picking blackberries)

And we made contact with the shipping company in Los Angeles.

Turns out that they are having a bit of a tiff with the Australian shipping company that sent the truck to LA in the first place, and had decided, in all good conscience and grace, to hold our Carnet ransom until they got paid. In short, we were informed that we were not going to get our Carnet until Shipping Company A paid Shipping Company B for doing whatever it was they did apropos of pushing bits of paper around a desk. In the mean time, we were in a significant jam. This could take days, if not weeks, if at all; we had no forwarding addresses in the event it was all resolved and the Carnet could be released; we were already behind schedule; and without the Carnet we couldn’t drive into Canada.

We remained relatively calm and convivial, thanking both parties in advance for getting on with sorting it all out. In the mean time I had visions of sending round lawyers, the police or even Da Boys (the shipping company was, after all, located in south central LA), but trusted, and hoped, that it would turn out all right.

We were assured by both shipping companies that it would all work out fine and we shouldn’t worry. Of course, we immediately began to worry. We stayed some extra days in anticipation of the Carnet arriving by mail to Los Altos – not a difficult decision, mind you – but had to move on eventually.

We had originally planned to spend a number of days in San Francisco but decided to use Los Altos as a launching pad, as SF was less than an hour north, and we didn’t need to be asked twice to stay with good people for nicks rather than expensive accommodation in the city. We had a great time in SF, including driving down the famous Lombard Street, hanging out at Pier 39 and the Aquarium, going for a short, yet expensive, trip on a cable car and marvelling at the superb Cable Car Museum, rubbing shoulders with conshie commies, herbal heroes, vegan VIPs and burned-out hippies in Haight-Ashbury and just cruising through neighbourhoods to marvel at them and their homes. I could live here.

(Pic: ‘Falling’ down one of San Francisco’s notorious steep hills)

From there, we headed back towards the fabled Californian coast, and into Oregon, and back to camping. The road was slow, windy, hilly and utterly brilliant. Maddy and Raffy weren’t all that enamoured with it, but I was in my element. Over every rise and around every bend we would be presented with a new vista – the confluence of forest and foreshore. Huge trees in thick forests to the right, wild seas to the left, idyllic fishing and vacation villages, and even wild animals like elk and sea-lions. We usually were able to find a small picnic ground for lunch and idyllic campsites in National Forests or Parks for the night. At the MacKretchie State Park we were introduced to a “California hug” by a woman fascinated by our trip, and who wished us well with a warm embrace.

Leaving California, the air became decidedly chilly and we kept warm by the open fire while critters rummaged and climbed around us. Maddy and Raffy perfected the art of roasting marshmallows before bedtime in the cosy tent.

What we found extraordinary, and what we were rather unprepared for, was just how cold it got so quickly. This was July in the US, known for balmy summers and beach frolicking. In only a short distance from Los Altos we found ourselves digging our winter woollies out from the duffle bag in the roof. We had spent months in hot climes, and suddenly we were faced with what felt like Arctic conditions.

At Still Water Cove we camped in a beautiful forest in earshot of the crashing waves of the Pacific, and in Redway and Eureka we not only found friendly larger campgrounds but also bubbling small communities. Eureka comes alive on Saturday evenings, with live performances of bands in cafes, parks and even alleyways. We became transfixed by three young men not much older than sixteen playing a blues-rock that was mesmerising: complicated rhythms and syncopation and eerie chord progressions, with thumping bass and soaring distorted electric guitar. We joined a couple of dozen other punters next to or on dumpsters along the cobble-stoned lane that ran between shops and factories and felt drawn and almost a part of this great community.

(Pic: Atop a recently fallen tree, near Redway)

The roads had become at once exciting and eerie. I was in my element dropping up and down gears and taking corners tightly, and the truck took it on sweetly. But the fog had become more and more prevalent the further north we headed, until in some places it had taken over the roads and the coast. There were times when we would drive along roads only a metre or two from the beach but were unable to see the sea. This felt a lot less like the US and a lot more like Scotland. We wondered what this would mean for our time in Canada.

We then rolled into Cape Blanco National Park, the westernmost part of Oregon, and again found a secluded campsite in a beautiful forest, and duly froze. The wind had picked up and it made sitting outside almost impossible. Not a great disaster, as camping is a great time to snuggle up and get on with that book, but the morning made us feel like we were ninety years old. It took twice as long to break camp and all four of us were grumpy. The freezing wind howled about our ears and the tent flapped around as we tried to pack it. Our fingers wouldn’t work properly and nothing folded the right way or fitted into its container or allotted space in or on the truck. This was not fun.

We rolled into the next town, Bandon and thawed in a local café with coffees and hot chocolates. After the blood started flowing again two local gents noticed our truck and we had a lovely chat (”Oh, you’ll have a great time in Canada – I’m sick of Americans…”). Feeling much better, we headed north again, but this time planning to leave the tent, mattresses, sleeping bags and gas stove in the truck, and instead opting for a room with a heater.

Newport provided this little gem – a room with beds, a great kitchen and a view of the beach…that was shrouded in a thick fog. In keeping with the winter feel we made use of the oven and tucked into roasted local salmon and vegies. Then, as the kids were dozing off (read “giggling and making mischief”) we had a visitor to our glass back door. I had peered over my book and found a racoon peering back at me. I got the kids up and we stared at this seemingly wild creature that was doing its best to look like a forlorn and starving beast, with big eyes and sitting back on its hind legs. We had been warned in countless campgrounds to never feed wild animals as ultimately they will not only quickly become dependent on handouts but sometimes get violent to get it – and the racoon is somewhat notorious. We watched it for a while, and eventually it sauntered off in search of a more generous human.

(Pic: Foggy Newport Beach)

SK: The fog, it turns out, is a blanket of cold air sucked to the coast from the sea when the inland temperature is hotter than the coast (or something like that). A helpful local explained the creation of the marine fog, as it is called, and that it was not always around – which explained why there were miles and miles of holiday cottages up and down the Oregon coast despite the fact that everything was shrouded in misty white. We were told that the warmer it is inland the foggier it is on the coast, and that only half an hour’s drive or so inland it was fifteen to twenty degrees warmer.

We found no explanation for the large number of veteran Volvos that were on the road in both directions, maybe something to do with the climate? But they were fun to spot and nice to watch.

Through my cousin Jon’s contacts, we were able to secure an address for the Carnet in Portland, should it actually be sent. There had been some conversations and emails with LA and Australia over the previous few days, which led us to believe that these people were talking to each other and resolving their issues. We left the fog behind and turned east.

Portland is a great city, with beautiful architecture, a river running through it, friendly people and good food. I could live here, too. It was certainly warmer but pleasant. Yet, even with these distractions, we were anxious and getting further distressed. We met up with the wonderful Diane and Mark, whose front doorstep was proffered to receive our precious document. They welcomed us, fed us a beautiful dinner and showed the kids where to pick local blackcurrants.

A day passed. Another day. Still phone calls and emails to two organizations that played a blame game, with us in the middle. He said she said; she said he said; and no sign of the Carnet. Surely it wasn’t so difficult to resolve. We were paying a high price, literally and figuratively, for these two businesses to bicker and blame. And then the end was in sight. After moving hotels, as there were no more vacancies for our extended stay, we got the message that the Carnet was on its way.

We did endeavour to make the most of our time here, despite the anxiety. We wandered around the city, sampled its famous brews, and stocked up with books at Powell’s, the largest bookshop in the USA. We also spent a day exploring the magnificent valley carved by the Columbia River, Mt Hood, and the fabulous Bonneville hydro-electric dam. The highlight was watching wild salmon through windows built deep inside the dam. The salmon were climbing the ‘fish ladder’ through the dam – an ingenious construction that protected the fish from the massive turbines of the power generators – to head further up river to spawn. Beautiful silver darts of all sizes swam against the strong current, following an instinct that has scientists baffled.

(Pic: Another Bridal Veil Falls, near Portland)

After having been reduced to tears by the whole affair, finally the Carnet was delivered to Mark and Diane’s house and we celebrated. We tore the envelope open and found the small ink stamp and lazy signature in their correct places. All that effort, argy-bargy and anxiety for those little scratchings on a bit of paper. Finally we could confidently leave the US for Canada – and we did.