I took my foot off the gas and slowed to a stop in Government Camp, Oregon at about 8pm, rolling to a stop in front of the only gas station. It was dark, so I circled around behind it and asked a couple of locals relieving their dogs where I could get ice and firewood. They said I was out of luck with the ice but their neighbor could sell me some firewood. We crept down the lane and shut the car off in front of a small apartment littered with beer cans, old lawn chairs and freshly split wood strewn about what can loosely be referred to as a front yard. Egged on by the locals down the street, I knocked on the front door and was greeted momentarily by a middle aged, slightly overweight man who looked like he could have been a former boxer.
“What do you want?” he asked, peering at me through the half-cracked door. “Your neighbors said you can sell me some firewood,” I said cheerfully. He looked responsible for the dozen or so red and white aluminum beer cans behind me, his eyes glazed by what I guessed was an intoxication that was hours in the making. He looked me over quickly and his demeanor immediately softened upon realizing that he had a sale that could fuel another day of his continuing bender.
“Well, you came to the right place!” he perked up, leading me over to a pile of wood strewn about the “yard”. “It’s a dollar apiece, and it’s way better than that crap wood they sell at the general store.” It was then that his inebriated entourage emerged from his apartment, indifferent to the firewood transaction that was taking place but drawn to the Pontiac like metal shavings to a magnet. The old girl stood a few feet away with the running lights glowing in the cool gathering dusk.
They surrounded us, beer cans in hand, while the kids peered out of the open windows, slightly disconcerted by the sudden attention. We discussed our adventures while they circled the car, admiring the wide whitewalls and chrome. I loaded $10 worth of wood into the back seat, pushing Parker over against the three pillows. He looked uncomfortable, but I assured him it was only five minutes to our campsite. He looked relieved but kept an anxious eye on our new business partners.
After about 20 minutes, we pried ourselves away and headed on down the mountain, rolling to a stop a few minutes later on a bed of pine needles. The kids leaped out of the car and dashed straight down the path to the creek—they remembered everything. I started a fire in the iron ring and waited for them to come back so I could put them to work setting up our tent. When the first battalion of wood had finally collapsed into the coals, I slapped a ribeye and a lobster tail onto the grill. We eat well when camping—it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures.
We spent the next two days doing absolutely nothing and it was glorious. I made the first real dent in the car magazines I’d brought with me, Samantha worked her way through the summer reading she’d been assigned when school let out, and Parker alternately played games on his iPad and poked at the fire with a progressively shorter and shorter firestick we brought with us from Crater Lake.
I needed this. I won’t bore you with the details of our drive from Bend to Mt. Hood, but it involved two long stops, hood up, letting the car cool off in 105 degree heat, a search for ethanol-free gasoline and a timing light I purchased from O’Reilly in the little town of Madras, Oregon so I could fine-tune the timing. There’s little margin for error in a 60 year old car with 400 pounds of gear when the mercury is over 100. These cars were designed for leaded 102 octane gasoline, not the 91 octane ethanol infused stuff. If the timing isn’t right on, it just doesn’t work.
I timed the engine twice more today and ran it seven miles uphill each time, progressively adding ignition advance to see if I can get it to run cooler. I think it’s better, but tomorrow will be the test as we climb back through the Cascades, down to the Columbia River and east to Twin Falls, Idaho. It’s going to be another hot one.
But for now, right now, none of that matters. The late afternoon sun is streaming through the trees, illuminating the insects flying over the stream below me like yellow glitter in a mossy green snow globe. The first kiss of evening air is beginning to ruffle the ferns along the water, carrying with it the scent of dampness and burning cedar. Soon the dark arms of the forest will close around us, and hold us securely in its emerald-green paradise until dawn.
We pitched our tent beneath the majestic stands of old-growth pines in the Mt. Hood National Forest. iPhone XR.
The early morning sun streams through the canyon beside our tent. Nikon D800, 24-120mm lens, f5, 125/sec, ISO 640, -1 stop exposure adjustment.
Camp Creek in the late afternoon. Nikon D800, Nikkor 24-120mm lens, f18, .4 sec, ISO 320
Deep dish Dutch oven pizza comes off the fire on day two of our stay in the Mt. Hood National Forest. It was even better than it looks. iPhone XR.