Run for the border

We spent two blissful days tickling Mt. Rainier’s toes — cool mountain air, towering evergreens, and a view so good it felt like Mother Nature herself was showing off. But with a heat wave barreling toward us, we packed up camp and started rumbling down the long, winding gravel road toward civilization.

That’s when I made the mistake… and gave Kerri the golden opportunity for those four words no husband wants to hear… See, we’d navigated up here using one app, no problem. But on the way down? For reasons unknown (heatstroke? brain fog? temporary lapse in judgment?) I decided to fire up Google Maps. Worse yet, I didn’t bother to double-check the route that Google provided. Rookie mistake.

Halfway down, déjà vu hit me — this was the same forest road Google had suggested for the uphill trip, the one I’d ignored because it’s been closed for years (so said my off-roading navigation app). Yet here we were, plunging thousands of feet lower in elevation, with no place to turn around. Three miles later, we popped out at the river we’d admired from above… and a big ol’ orange-and-white blockade that said, in no uncertain terms: “Yur done mate.”

Cue Kerri. “I told you so.” Delivered with her trademark audible eye-roll. Those four word…

Marcel did not appreciate the climb back up. First gear. Endless hairpins. No airflow to cool the radiator. By the top, every gauge was screaming too hot, but made it we did. Ah, the glamorous life of van-dwelling forest road explorers, such as we are.

Back at the bottom, we re-inflated all four tires and set our sights on the Canadian border. Two hours of highway miles later, we rolled into Ellensburg and spotted an old-fashioned truck stop. Translation: hot showers. Glorious, steamy, showers. At $18 they weren’t cheap, but after a week of forest living? Worth. Every. Penny.

All cleaned up, we didn’t make it far before our next stop — a local brewery that’s part of the Harvest Host network. It wasn’t the most scenic pf places to spend a night; in the back lot of a brewery, but free overnight parking plus pizza and cold beer? Yes, please.

The next morning, we stumbled upon a unicorn: a car wash tall enough for Marcel’s lofty roofline. First bath since January. He left gleaming and smelling faintly of “Mountain Fresh.” Neither of us had any idea that Marcel could clean up so nicely. It didn’t last very long.

From there, the plan was a “quick” drive north. But any seasoned traveler knows: when Google says the trek will last only four hours, and you drive a big van, it really means eight… minimum. Between breakfast at a local cafe, poking through an antique store, fuel stops, obligatory popsicle breaks, and a few spontaneous sightseeing detours, our short drive morphed into a 10-hour marathon. We ended the day at a quiet Columbia River boat launch, lulled to sleep by the breeze pushing tiny waves onto the shoreline.

The next day? Same story. Short drive, long day. By sunset, we were just 30 minutes from the Canadian border. We found a gravel road climbing two miles up a mountain near Kettle River, Washington, and set up camp for our last night in the U.S. Tomorrow, Canada awaits. But first — one more night under the stars, with Marcel parked high above it all.