Ok, No posts since that lame Walmart post last Thursday. What can I say... You want me to invent posts. I tried. 
We have been very happy here in Roslyn, WA staying with our good friend Tad. We are not in this to win a road race after all, 
but to slow down and live life as we know it with our friends. We will be hitting the road next week for 
more mind blowing travel posts, me thinks, so you just have to veg out till then. Mind blowing... I use that phrase loosley.. 
I hope you are on good drugs, or at least a good stiff drink, when reading them... It couldn't hurt. 

Check your channel listings and set the TiVo to record as we will be posting more next week. 

We're watching the Emmys on TV tonight. I love HDTV. How many times did I say we don't need that. Wrong. 

Terry is doing Pork Spare Ribs and Potato Salad. He did a dry rub and sauce from scratch. 
Ok here I go, if John and Derek will allow me, a little latitude (it will be) Yummy.
But since I'm having a "Ten High and 7" I'm sure it will be good. 

Terry and Tad are going over the pass to Seattle on Monday to explore since Tad has some business to attend to there. 
I'm giving them a guys day out, as I'm staying  here relax and get ready to head south on Wednesday. 
Remember I do the driving. I know Terry offers every time we hook up but I just announce not today, I got it, thanks. 
The truth is it means no, not, ever. I love him but I would go nuts sitting on the passenger seat telling him how to drive. 
We each have our evolved roles,  I'm not about to change now.... me thinks. 

We are enjoying our stay here in Roslyn, WA with Tad and are planing to head on down the raod early next week, But untill then we are planing our route and thinking about Quartzsite and what we will find this year.  I found this article in the RVing Quartzsite web site. 

New Walmart Opens- 45 minutes from Quartzsite
Published by Russ and Tiña De Maris RVing Quartzsite

For RVers who look to Quartzsite as a good place to winter over, or even just drop in for a vist, shopping Walmart has gotten a whole lot easier. The new Walmart at Parker did it’s big grand opening last week, and while not wearing the sign that proclaims “Super Walmart” you’ll find most of what RVers look for right there on Highway 95.

What’s inside? A full size supercenter-style grocery takes a good chunk out of the store’s floor space. The layout is typical Wally, with the less-than-desirable produce section up front, followed by freezer sections, and on through dry goods toward the back wall where dairyland lives. From there, the store layout is different than the majority of Walmarts we’ve visited on the road. It’s a different layout, but it is a bit smaller than the typical superstore.

You will find the full-serve pharmacy you’re accustomed to, but things get a bit different from there. There is no lube and tire shop–although there is a fairly accommodating auto supplies section. Included in it is a full half side ailse of “RV related” stuff, provided you include hitches and balls in amongst RV goods. Other other RV items have been placed in odd places–we found some RV stuff on an end cap near the paint section; hopefully with time these items will find their way together.

Most of the other typical Walmart departments are represented at the Parker outlet. Admittedly, many of those departments are on the shrunken side: A crafts area covers a couple of aisles, but you folks looking for fabrics for your next sewing project will be disappointed–no bolts of cloth. Home electronics has a fairly large lineup of TVs and stereo equipment, and music lovers will find plenty of CDs. But if you need a wide variety in choices in home appliances, best to look elsewhere. There’s a “little bit” of most everything, but not a lot of choices. The photo center does have the self-service setup for making prints from your digital camera images, and photo processing is also on premises.

Absent from the Parker store, however, are the ancillary stores you’ve come to look for. No opticians, manicurists, fast food joints, or banks. The limited width of the front end of the store allows for only one main entry area, so you’ll soon recognize this is a ‘mini Super Walmart’ if such a thing is possible. Nevertheless, for many RVers, this Wally will beat the dickens out of a long drive to Yuma. And for those passing through, there are no signs prohibiting overnight RV parking.

Still missing your fast food? Don’t worry, across the street at the Safeway Plaza there’s a couple of outfits, and for our bet, Ruperto’s Mexican just south of Walmart puts together a great authentic Mexican lunch in very short order, and for a good price to boot.

From the Walmart web site
Store Phone (928) 669-2161

At This Location •  Garden Center •  Site to StoreSM •  Grocery •  Open 24 hours •  Pharmacy •  Photo Center •  1-Hour Photo Center
Pharmacy Phone (928) 669-8306
Pharmacy Hours •  Monday-Friday: 9:00 am - 9:00 pm
•  Saturday: 9:00 am - 7:00 pm •  Sunday: 10:00 am - 6:00 pm

Terry is off to the Interstate rest area to dump our 50 gal. portable waste water tank after he macerator pumped our black water into it. 
Now here is a tidbit bit you didn't want to know.  We have gone over two weeks without dumping black and we only had 35 gal. 
See we're not so full of it after all.

I subscribe to Google alerts and one of the topics is alerts on Quartzsite..
I got an alert about a story about this guy who visited this summer because his family has a history of going to Q in the winter. 

Do read his story...

Space, Death, and Memory: My Summer Vacation in Quartzsite
By Ben Hill | Published Thursday, Sept. 10, 2009 in the San Diego Reader 

Past the Coachella Valley, where the desert floor pushes the mountains out of sight, my grandfather levitates above a steamy I-10, alternately stiff-arming the grill and checking the coolant level of my eastbound station wagon.
“You’re out of your mind!” he says, a plaid shirt and work pants hanging from his lanky frame. “Either that or you’re a masochist.”
I tell him I need to think, and that everywhere else is full.
“But you hated it in the winter, and there’s nothing to do there in the summer,” he replies. “No people, no junk. And it’s 100 degrees every day!”
“If you can tell me why you went,” I say, “then I can tell you why I’m going.”
Our circular dialogue continues until I reach Blythe, where the fishtailing, kitsch-stickered trailers of Havasu enthusiasts demand that I focus on the road.
I cross the Arizona state line twenty minutes later, and the only things I recognize are the jagged, barren mountains that enclose Quartzsite in a dark ring. The skeleton of off-ramps and overpasses and collector roads has grown, but the flesh has shrunk. And besides the gas stations and fast-food restaurants that hug the intersection with Highway 95, nothing moves. Boarded-up businesses and empty RV parks line Main Street with “closed for summer” signs and rows of utility hookups.
I find JR’s RV Park a few miles north on 95, and I exit the car stiff, sweaty, and blinded by the sun-baked roads and aluminum siding. The park is half-full of motor homes and trailers, but I don’t see any people. The thermometer outside the office points to 115, and a white-haired woman comes out looking confused.
I tell her that I am writing an article about Quartzsite in the summer, and ask if she knew my grandfather.
“I’ve only been here a few years,” she says, “and this is my first summer.”
“Can I stay here?”I ask.
“Sure, but you’ll be the only one besides me and my husband.”She points to a sign next to the thermometer. “Twenty-four dollars a night, two hundred twenty a month.”
We talk about her background and the recession, and then I walk the park, admiring leftover gardens of succulents and rocks. I circle the community center where I used to take showers and play ping-pong, then I drag pebbles with my feet until I stumble upon my grandfather’s double-wide.
My grandmother died in 1980, and my recently retired grandfather moved to a small town in the Northwest where my family lived. He stayed with us a few months before buying a house near the high school. In his spare time, he repaired pocket watches and classic cars and dead technologies, but he was soon restless, and on a trip through Arizona found Quartzsite.
By the mid-1980s, we had moved to California, and my grandfather was splitting time between Seattle and Quartzsite with his second wife. They would leave just before Christmas and stay until mid-March, first in a motor home and later a trailer, and I would visit them in the peak season of late January.
My grandfather was a typical Quartzsite resident: white, working-class, 60s or older, and a “snowbird” fleeing from the elements of the Northwest, Midwest and Canada. In the 1980s, Quartzsite had a population of 2,000 during the summer and fall, but by late January, half a million people called it a temporary home, ostensibly to see the flea markets. The RV parks inflated to overcapacity, and the RVers dropped anchor anywhere they could, dry camping on raw BLM land or open space.
My grandfather and his wife would rise at dawn to read the paper and drink coffee, then cooked eggs and bacon with toast and margarine. In the afternoon, they shopped. My grandfather for tools and vintage electronics, his wife for gemstones and beads. He’d come home to an adjacent shed to tinker with his purchases or do home improvements, and his wife smoked in the living room. Occasionally they drove to Blythe to get groceries or day-tripped northwest to the Colorado River, south to Yuma or east to Phoenix. At sunset, sitting on plastic chairs and artificial turf under an RV awning, they shared their purchases with neighbors over drinks. When conversation lagged, they talked about the weather.
On the way back to town, I find the Chamber of Commerce trailer closed, but on the corkboard outside, I read the map, suggested hikes and an advisory titled Desert Survival Rules. Number 1: stick to your plan. Number 2: drink water. Number 3: keep an eye on the sky. And Number 12: a roadway is a sign of civilization – if you find a road, stay on it.
I park my car near the westerly freeway off-ramp and walk east along Main Street, stopping at the handful of businesses that are still open. I start at T-Rocks, a large sand lot where chunks of tumbled stone line the fence, resting on oil barrels and wood tops cut in the shape of wagon wheels. Under a tent at the back of the lot, the owner shows me pendants of amethyst, emeralds and tourmaline, and I ask if she wants to buy some of my grandfather’s rocks.
“Maybe,” she says, “We buy all the time.”
“Who do you sell to in the summer?”I ask.
“People passing through,” she says. “Travelers, energy workers on the way to Sedona, people who know we’re here.”
At Daniel’s Best Jerky, whose numerous billboards line the I-10, a seventy-ish clerk named Trish tells me she came here seven years ago for a man, trading in the humidity of Oklahoma for dry heat and bagging groceries until she landed at Daniel’s.
“There’s karaoke at the Yacht Club on Thursdays and Fridays,” she says, “and bingo at the senior center. Sometimes you see four-wheelers on the weekends, and there’s a golf course in the desert a ways off. Most of the time it’s hot like it is today, and you just stay indoors.”
In the early twentieth century, the area around Quartzsite only boasted a few landholders. Charles Tyson, the town’s most prominent early citizen, built the stage station for west-bound settlers in 1866, ran the post office in the late 1800s, and tried to attract the outside world’s attention. Mining led to a mini-boom, but by the 1950s, only five families were left in town.
In the 1960s, small groups of retirees from the Northwest came to Quartzsite in pursuit of warm winters, clean air and the untouched scenery of the Southwest desert. Vendors followed, holding the first Quartzsite Pow Wow in 1967. Gemstones highlighted the event due to their local presence.
The Sun Belt relocation and RV crazes of the ‘70s and ‘80s flooded Quartzsite with visitors, and eventually more than 4,000 vendors paid for space at gem shows and flea markets each year, selling everything from rare antiques to dollar-store items.
I peer through the windows of the Yacht Club, a restaurant with $10 chicken dinners and pictures of sailboats and lizards juxtaposed on its walls, and chat up the manager of the Yacht Club Motel. Carol Cannon is a single mother in her twenties with four kids, and she moved here from Missouri six years ago to live with her mother. She shows me one of the rooms, the only non-RV alternative to the Super 8: half of an old single-wide, dark and swamp-cooled with burgundy bedspreads and thin-paneled walls, for $53 a night.
At the east end of town, I see a naked man walking in front of a bookshop. Or almost naked, because only a straw hat, turquoise necklace and turquoise-beaded genital pouch cover his lacquered body. The Reader’s Oasis is owned by Paul Winer, a nudist and former boogie-woogie musician.
“Came here twenty years ago with $30 in cash and a bunch of t-shirts to sell,” he says, “and now I got my own store. Built it on a loan from the bank a few years back.”
The bookshop is one of the few wood and steel buildings in town, and it holds a large inventory of paperbacks, CDs, DVDs and VHS tapes. Next to a collection of rare books, a portable CD player shifts from the Zodiacs to the Five Satins, and they croon “shoo doop, shooby doo”into the stillness.
“It’s like family farming here,” Winer says, “because I’m not making big profits. But after twenty years on the road, I found a place to settle and have a life that I could enjoy.”Winer constantly walks around the store or moves in place, and through his long, scraggly hair, he says, “I’ll sell in five years, hopefully to another local, and go back to playing boogie-woogie on the road.”
I retrace my steps along Main Street, surveying buildings with names like Bargain Barn and Addicted to Deals, then stop under a plaid awning in the heart of The Main Event, Quartzsite’s primary outdoor market. As a kid, I terrorized the vendors by screaming up and down the crowded dirt aisles and playing with their wares, then terrorized my grandfather by claiming incurable boredom and begging for the television. Inside the maze of folding tables and tent poles, people bargained and bartered and told travel stories, and in its heyday, The Main Event had concerts, rodeos and fireworks. The grounds had the dusty, unkempt look of a grainy Western that I miss now, but at the time, I was more interested in a clean picture and science fiction narratives.
Statues of a bear and Native Americans served as markers for The Main Event, and I find them in front of the Trading Post, a store selling Indian jewelry and artifacts. A bronzed clerk named Cherie Watson restocks $10 beaded necklaces next to a giant fan that blows hot air.
She moves behind the counter and says, “I drove truck, and now I sell ice cream. But it’s too hot to sell ice cream, so I work here in the summer.”
She has medical bills stemming from an ailing knee, but speaks crisply and looks fit for 68. She wishes the town’s infrastructure would grow so they weren’t so winter-dependent.
“I love it, but it’s an inconvenient lifestyle,” she says. “You have to drive for groceries, to do things, and there’s no sense of community.”
“What do you do in the summer after work?”I ask.
“I’m tired, so I go home and watch TV. You have to get up early, because it’s already 90 degrees outside, and you only have an hour or two before the real heat pushes you inside. In the winter, the only thing I have time to do is open the shop, work, and close it. I have to work.”
“What happens to the people you meet in the winter?” I ask. “It seemed like my grandfather had the same friends each year, but they didn’t see each other beyond that.”
“They don’t. Maybe an email or two, but they show up in the same spot each year and pick up again.” She pauses, then smiles at me. “Listen son, people come here in the winter because it’s easy. You camp with no yard, no snow, no responsibilities. The temperature is 70 degrees, and the air is clean. It’s the same thing with socializing.”
A few customers walk in at the other side of the store, as does her boss, all of them sunburned and wearing tank tops.
“Making us some money today Cherie?”her boss asks.
“Just a second,” she says, then looks back at me. “People are either alive or dead when they get here, and it’s all in their mind.”
She puts her hands on mine to stop me from writing. “As you get older, you’re obsessed with your own mortality,“ she says. “Every day you get up is a blessing, but the cycles of health and sickness chew your mind up. So how do you deal? How do you stop yourself from thinking that way?”
Her boss calls to her again, but she’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer. “I don’t know,” I say.
“You have to keep moving. Making plans, having interests, whatever they are,” she says. “As long as you feel good, it is good.”
Her boss comes by and we talk moccasins and the semi-precious stones in the rows behind me. I walk around the shop, inspecting the leather and prints of Native American pastorals. The customers leave, and Cherie and I talk about computers and the internet for a few minutes. I buy postcards with aerial views of Quartzsite’s change through the seasons.
I drive around town, walking through the empty spaces where vendors and RVers will be in six months. There are hundreds of storage sheds and vehicles strewn across the desert, and although I search desperately for a place to take pictures, it’s too flat to get perspective on anything. When I reach the mountains on the south side of town, the trailers and storage sheds have faded, as has the sun. I tape the postcards to the dash and head back to town.
I cross the easterly overpass and see the naked bookseller biking home with a three-wheeled dingy in tow. He told me five years, as did Cherie and Carol. They would be out in five years or less. The Wal-Mart would open a half hour away in Parker the next week, but jobs and owning a home would still be tough for full-time residents. They’d miss the summer solitude and the winter excitement, but they would have to leave.
I stop at a community park on the east side of town, where kids play basketball in the dusky frame of two decommissioned fighter jets. I try unsuccessfully to determine the kids’ ethnicity, then stare at the sand and sky beyond. Mesquite trees and a sprinkling of black and amber rocks foreground the last flickers of crimson with magenta accents.
At some point, life becomes about space. Controlling it, negotiating it, with others and yourself. I thought that’s why my grandfather came here, and I assumed that if I could encounter that space on its own, I could grasp it. Like a school or a ski lodge in the summer, I wanted to walk through vast, echoing chambers and build a personal relationship with the landscape. But Quartzsite’s winter grid of white rectangles, neatly plotted along a crossroads, reveals a random succession of atomized clusters in the summer. Like many Southwestern cities, its sprawling, indeterminate borders leave inhabitants drifting between points on a map. And in the summer, the desert cannot be owned or stripped to its roots, for that is when it’s most alive.
Before Quartzsite, my grandfather took few vacations, but when he did, he worked. A survivor of the Depression, he went on vacation to see someone, to do something. And during a Quartzsite winter, everyone was always doing something. Moving to it or from it. Touching, buying, using an infinite number of products, leaving little time for anything else. The town and some of its vendors had an artistic background, and my grandfather’s third wife fashioned herself as a beadmaker and crotchetier (in the 1990s, another story), but creativity was never essential to their identity. It was an accoutrement, a flattery, but the primary ethic was still work.
I wake up in my car to a full moon, lighting the backboards and jets into a 3-D trapezoid. I walk outside to take pictures of the stars, but my camera’s batteries are dead. I smell the air, but I can’t distinguish one element from another. I think about going to Burning Man, and what I’ve heard about the art, the free love, and the archetypal transformation through ritualized self-expression. And then I think about going to Vegas, checking in under a fake name, and spending the same amount of money on a hooker and a room with VH1 Classic. And then my mind spins. I wonder what the purpose of travel is, and if it has an ethic. The intense, printless stimulation of a Burning Man; the easy, collapsible community of a Quartzsite; the restorative alt-reality of an island massage: what do I get from it, and what’s the difference?
In December 2003, my grandfather was arrested in Arizona for driving on the wrong side of I-10. It was 3 a.m., and he had two loaded pistols under the front seat. My family sold the trailer and drove him back to the Northwest, where he struggled with increasing dementia and heart problems. His wife left him, and he moved back in with family before passing away in November 2004.
When I was younger, traveling and writing used to be heroic, idealized pursuits that led to a teleological end, but as I get older, they are primarily a vehicle to let my mind wander. To collect images and sensations and reflect on them, occasionally thinking up something new, without the demands to make sense of it all. I don’t know that my grandfather came here to negotiate space, nor to cope with his mortality. That sounds more like me. Maybe he just liked the weather, or maybe he just liked being around people his own age. Beyond that, I’m trying too hard to resolve him, which is the last thing I want. Because whatever joy comes from what passes as illumination, from piecing together a life or a world, also comes with a dose of terror. And in the desert, or at least in Quartzsite, the only palliative is motion.
When it’s light out, I drive to a gas station and load up on potato chips, donuts and candy bars. A group of tweaking teens stare at me with pink eyes, and a man with a cane strikes up a political conversation. He criticizes the president, then praises him, all the time trying to fish out an opinion from me. After a few casts, I realize he doesn’t care about politics, and we grab a bench together. We talk about Quartzsite, his past, and the weather.
As I wolf down my second maple bar, I daydream about Indian Fry Bread, a flat, deep-fried disc that was made from scratch at the large swap meets in Quartzsite. My grandfather would buy me a plate every afternoon. Crisp on the rim and doughy in the middle, it was soft enough to tear with your fingers. I piled it high with powdered sugar and honey, and then cajoled another family member into buying me two or three more before a gorging that inevitably knotted my stomach.
An hour later, as the temperature nears 100, the man with the cane asks, “Have you been here in the winter?”
“Yes,” I say, “a few times.”
“There’s nothing like it,” he says, “nothing on earth.“ He puts on his hat and makes bold movements to indicate he is going somewhere. “But the summer, it’s not so great.”
“It’s tragic,” I whisper. Then a little louder, “I love it.”
“Well in that case, you should go hiking,” he says. “Go see some of these old mines around here. Just bring lots of water.”
“No, not this time,” I say. “One day of this heat is enough for now.”
We shake hands, and I drive up the overpass and down the on-ramp. I catch one last glimpse out the window, remove the postcards from the dash, and fiddle with the radio.

(Wordsmithed Sept. 15)

You fulltimers know what this date means.   The Forest Service and campground contract companies close down their campgrounds for the season. 
This is for many of us the best time to camp. Sure the weekenders are back to getting their kids in school and usage is down. Is that a reason to close the campgrounds. At least leave spme for us who were your best customers all season. 
Now some of the campground hosts have done their tour and may be tired after 2-3 months of service and may be ready for a vacation from workamping. But how many would like to stay for a month more of less traffic and cleaning the johns, firepits, and enjoy the fall season without now being kicked out to move on down the road. To where me wonders? It is very early to head south as it's still over 100 in Arizona after all. Me thinks they earned a month of working their normal contracted hours. Most worked many more hours than were asked. Because they love serving the public, and we thank them. 

Now more, of the story... The FS has outsourced, due to buget costs, over the years, to private contractors allowing them to up the fees so as to make money doing so. Seems they have determined this is a money maker and not just a local service. These areas are owned by us and when we can use them , and how much they cost, should not be determined by how much money a contractor can make off of them, and when they should shut them down. We see from some campground hosts who are caught up in more about the profitability of the sites than the true reason the campgrounds were created in the first place to serve the public and at times let a contractor make a small profit from doing so. 
Not screw every cent out of people trying to enjoy our public lands. Seems these peolpe are looking at this as a profit center and not just a service. At least they could do is offer Ice Cream at the campground entrance. And not rip us off  with a charge to have a picnic. Is this what the FS had in mind on outsouring. Me thinks NOT. 

We are still in Roslyn, WA staying with our friend Tad at his place exploring the area till early next week. Next we will head on down through Oregon and California (if we go that way) and will have to study and call ahead to see if and what FS campgrounds are open. Oh me thinks this is mute as many campgrounds are being closed due to budgets anyway. Ya know in either case this is a great county and great places to camp. We only have to explore a bit to find them and with the Senior Card very cost effective in COE and FS campgrounds . Now let me say we do avoid most of the state parks as they are pricing themselves out of the market for us and are many times not big rig site friendly. Now NM parks are not in that class, but most others are let me say it right up front, rip offs. Entrance fees to just enter to see if there was a campsite available. Hello Montana. 

Now for today as I get back on target as we took another day trip. 
Strap in your seat belt and let's go.

We headed up to Fish Lake in the upper center of the map. We need maps to for you to fallow along me thinks... 
Roslyn where we are staying is on HW 903 just west of South Cle Elum on the map. Today was about a 25 mile drive one way.

Now the road did deteriorate as we went up the grade. But that is why we are doing this drive to have fun and get back to nature. 

Not many words are need to explain the splendor of this area. So I wont.

There are fantastic campsites everywhere. Not for  RVs (because of the road conditions) but pop ups and tents, this is heaven. 

Views like this made for a drive to remember thanks to Tad. He should record cassettes and sell them in the gift shop in Roslyn f
or people just like us as he knows about every turn in the road and trail ,as he has lived this area, and has fantastic stories to share. 

Now if you are fishing you have to pay attention to the rules.. 

I did a search on recreation.gov about the area for maps etc. and found this Fish Lake Guard Station is for rent for $40 a night. 

The lower crawl space door (right lower next to the stairs) was wide open. Me thinks a perfect spot for a bear to crawl into for the winter. Terry spotted that. You can also see center left the widow shutters were still laying next to the wall so must still be open for visits. See the white flag poll out front. 

Getting close to the end of the road in the open high park area. 

Mountain Ash Berries. Don't believe we can eat these.  Most everything else was turning due to frost. 
Terry did a Google search and din't find much, but all we have to do now is ask Tad, me thinks. 

Back at our serene spot Tad had prepaired for us to spend time with him.  He loves this area of WA and me thinks sharing it with us. 

A shot of Terry and Tad back in the 5er from the other day discussing life as we know it, and their plans 
for the Rock Club this winter in Quartzsite. 

The BLT on the table was not half bad per Tad as he took it home for supper. 
 
 

I would like to think of this blog as our version of what USA Today does as they don't publish on weekends. 
I read it online and miss a new issue untill Monday. This edition is like that newspaper, a bigger editon just for the weekend. 
We did more like three day trips rolled into one. I hope you enjoy. We did. Now if we do get out and about this weekend I will blog about it. 
We are having a great trip through the northwest. So much more than we would have ever imagined. Tanks to our friend Tad who is showing us sites we would have never seen on our own. Everyday,we think what we have seen is a never to be forgotten life experience. It just gets better. You can study this country on Google Earth etc. but to travel it is so much more. And now as we explore this area in Washington we will be back in years to come, You Betcha... 

Maps, gota have visual aids to follow along... 

Heading from Roslyn to Ellensburg and then south on Canyon Rd HW 821 from Ellensburg to Yakima.

This was quite a drive and my knuckles were turning white by the time we came out the bottom of the canyon many miles later.
There were several nice looking BLM campgrounds along this stretch and were large enough for big RVs. 

Sure we could have taken the Interstate but what fun would that be.  Now most zip by this great side trip. Do take this route when you can. 

Yakima River Canyon is carved out of the surrounding basalt. The massive volcanic cliffs tower over the river as it winds through the arid sagebrush uplands. The river is most notably home to raptors and bighorn sheep, and also to colonies of cliff swallows, and herds of deer and elk. 

I wanted to stop at a RV service center in Union Gap (Yakima) to make sure they would fix our water heater which starts only when it wants to on gas. We have to go out and bang on the gas value. They had the part in stock and will do the repair when we go through there later on. Said not a problem. Some of these shops tell you they are way backed up can't get to you for weeks. How does that work for fulltimers? 

Anyway after we keep heading south as Tad was directing us to the vast fruit and vegatable country south of Yakima. We stopped at several stands like this. These ladies were having a great time with these gords.

Me thinks they had other thoughts on their minds. 

Terry just kept bagging and bagging. 

We bought melons, etc. and tomatoes right form the field but me thinks we still have a few things to learn. They came right from the field but they are the same ones boxed up and heading out to your local grocery store and you already know they don't have any taste so why should these be any different. And they weren't. 

It just didn't stop next we heading back to Ellenburg and then east to Vantage, WA and Ginkgo Petrified Forest State Park. 
You can see the visual aid map above if you get lost. A rally cool place.  Would you believe I went in to tour the museum. 
No not me. Afraid so. 

Terry and Tad 
Gingko State Park, 470 acres on Wanapum Reservoir, formed by the Wanapum dam on the Columbia River. Fishing for bass, bluegill, bullhead, catfish, perch, salmon, steelhead, sturgeon, and trout in the river. Although many visitors enjoy boating, water-skiing, swimming, and fishing in the lake, the highlight of this park is the petrified forest discovered in the 1930s, with extremely rare ginkgo tree specimens. The buildings at the park were mostly constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps. An interpretive center tells the story of how the forest came to be petrified.

View from the museum grounds of the Columbia River. 

A short walk below the museum was a Petroglyhs display. 

Just imagine of being alive at this time doing this writing. Think what they would think if they saw us today using the Internet. 
They must have looked up to the heavens and back to the waters that sustained them to have their own beliefs of faith in their culture. 
Poud people who had good lives and loving family groups. Isn't that what it is all about after all. 
Wonder if our lives are any better now, then how they lived in this vast, as we look at it, wilderness. 
A different cuture and a different time. It does make the mind wonder about times past, and our own future. 
Points of learning like this place, is good for the soul to reflect about life as we know it. Me thinks.

Down the road from the Park is a private who is licensed to sell Petrified goods. 

Fun little venture. 

 

Oh no we were not done yet. Took the old HW 97 back toward Ellenburg and Tad said turn right.

Up three mile road to the top of a mountain to the huge visitor center to learn and be up close to the big wind machines.

Yes there is that big HILL (Reiner) to the west.

Terry doing his museum (I mean visitor center thing). 

By this time I was getting tired.  Seems like three day trips rolled into one. 
Now like the USAToday I might take the weekend off.
 
 

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