I’m Barbarian when it
comes to AC in an automobile. Ride with
me in an Eastern Washington heat wave and you’ve better pray to your Gods that
the ambient temp goes above 103°. If the
temp doesn’t then you will live with at a minimum the 480 AC and in the right
place at the right time you may enjoy the 490 AC. Could be worse I drive a mini club cab
“pickyup”. Used to be my rig only had
two windows. That reduces cooling capacity vastly. Go ahead and call me on it. I actually have the math skills to tell you
it reduces the cooling by half.
The fact is, at this point, I’m running through some of the
most beautiful Kittitas Valley land filled with scent fresh mown and baled
Cowboy bales. Once more, I’m belly laughing and hanging on not only to
the visual but the scent. All of that
has officially sealed my fate. I’m
trapped in my road trip. Sealed into an
envelope no one sealed. No one
mailed. Someone kindly left open so I
could peek out as I headed toward my destination.
The cool thing about not using the AC is when you hit the summer mountains. Every
scent comes rushing in at 80 mph then caress’s
your face. At that moment you know road trip is on and
every scent jacks your library of memories.
Yup that’s a pine scented stockyard.
Yup that’s a spruce scented stream, that’s the scent of a stream trying
to hang on until next. Aspen trying to hide the odour of the hill
laboring RV in front of you. Heady, and very
heavy at all that August meadow blanket with...
I wound down, around and up.
Left, right, starboard and port round and round. As the sun started to
Wester odd things began to happen as they always do during that time in the
approaching the cats night that makes all nervous.
I pass under an overpass and way way out of the way and spy
five planes, each on a train car, destined to Boeing West all wrapped in green
something. Just in case there was
someone in the wingless planes the person that had wrapped the Liners made sure
anyone would have a view out. Each plane
happily headed West clinking and clanking and the ghosts that one worker guy
spent hours cutting the green stuff off each window so they who were flying the
wingless train could blindly view the switchback that is the method to get into
this valley.
I dropped into a valley lit the light of the Westering
sun. About the time that was light enough
for the young to read but for those of
us with glasses meant turning on the reading lamp.
So carefully I drove the stretch that is Beaver Creek Valley
where old eyes need help. As I passed
these rural abodes wondering about what was happening.
That house had a family that wondered how they were going to
make their mortgage payment. On the
other side of the road Grandma was sick and husband had to cook his own dinner
because his wife was sitting in a hospital fifty miles away. The husband discovered being on your own
wasn’t very cool.
Yikes, that house without the porch light was filled with an
angry angry man that drinks himself asleep starting about noon.
Then there was the home in happy but fearful frenzy as they
prepared for their daughter departure clear across the state five hours away
from meeting her destiny as a freshman.
Parents were hoping beyond hope the home town boyfriend wouldn’t have
the last say.
So the miles went by.
I was close to the cabin and filled with overwhelming anticipation. I could tell by the long shadows from the sun
sliding in orange behind the peaks I would be turning the water on at the cabin
by brail. Crap, even in full sunlight
turning the water on with the “tool” was/is a lot like dousing for water with a
Willow Y.
Wow. I guess this is
a longer story than anyone wants to hear.
Guess what! I’m going to add
something, that is hopefully more exciting tomorrow.
Talk to you tomorrow
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