Locals call it The Rock. And like Alcatraz, Vancouver Island is surrounded by water. That’s why they call it an island. And just like Alcatraz, Vancouver Island is an amazingly gentle and beautiful place the locals call paradise. OK, Vancouver Island is nothing like Alcatraz. But locals do call it The Rock.

Once upon a time there were three brothers. Albert, Harry and Carl. Harry stayed in Sweden. Carl laid bricks in Chicago and Albert was a lumberjack who worked his way to Vancouver Island. And then decades later two of Albert and Carl’s grandchildren along with their special friends Carmen and Noel hiked a pretty route in Sooke. They saw some whales way off in the distance and then had pints at a local pub. Later they played Cribbage and Noel was disappointed with how that went. And they had a Canadian Mediterranean dinner (fries smothered in tabouli salad- it was good). One of the grandchildren, I won’t say which, came to the party with a massive freshly caught Salmon filet caught on a fishing trip paid for by a lucky Canadian lottery ticket. The other grandchild presented a used paper back book. So it was an even trade.

Yeah it was a pretty awesome day. And the next was good too. Butchart Garden in the morning then Beacon Hill Park in the afternoon. That plus a mug up at a local coffee shop and some wandering around downtown Victoria makes for a pretty fun day. Life on The Rock is good.

I’ll tell you one thing that’s big. It’s our laundry bag. Way bigger now than either one of our two duffle bags. Actually bigger than both duffle bags combined which doesn’t seem right. Last night I bought some underwear at Walmart just so we could make it to tonight’s Airbnb. It comes with a washer and dryer. Corey had to do the same last week a few days before Park City.

A tiny house is not for everyone. After a few days it was not really for me either although the ladder was not as difficult as I had imagined it to be. The toilet though was annoying; had two settings, one for going one and the other for doing a number two. That can be a lot to remember in the middle of the night.

The ultimate big thing of course is the ocean. Hard to top that one. Drive in any direction and eventually the ocean stops you. It’s that limit we search out; that moment when the earth says you can do no more. In a little bit we will drive onto a boat which will then ferry us to a new mysterious land called Canada. Few have ever gone this far north. Those that have returned have been driven mad with visions of hockey, a currency slightly less valuable than our own and a weird tendency to say “right on.” It’s “aboot” time we made it back.

Just a little bit outside of Mount Rainier National Park is Packwood. Spread neatly across Route 12, it has a few motels, a historic lodge (the recently restored Hotel Packwood), a brewery (this is Washington after all) and one amazing coffee shop.

We loved The Mountain Goat mostly for the covered outside area facing the Hotel Packwood and then behind that the low mountains building up to Mount Rainier. They also roast their own beans and serve delicious food. Nothing wrong with the inside area either; lots of dark wood and comfortable chairs.

The Mountain Goat also was our last stop in the Mount Rainier area, a pause before venturing deeper into the Pacific Northwest (home of my long time nemesis The Yeti). It was an amazing three nights camping with my best friend, girlfriend and wife who, lucky for me, are all the same person. But the road is calling and we must go (all apologies to John Muir).

The barn was painted over with a sign saying “Morton went woke, what a joke” and then a bunch of other things too difficult to read from a car doing about sixty on the windy road between Packwood and Morton. The handmade signage up in Yeti country is really something else. A lot of it was the usual MAGA stuff but some of it I honestly had no idea what they were referencing. But a short while later we came to the exit for Morton and, well, it seemed like a fun riddle to solve. What made Morton woke?

We started at the visitor center. Or at least we tried to. Lots of arrows pointing us somewhere led to a small building with an empty parking lot and a big open sign on the door. It was closed. Across the street was a small home with a Trump flag. So far it seemed Woke zero, MAGA one.

Made our way into town and saw our first Woke clue. It was a bench dressed up in Pride colors. Beside it was a mural starring a gay Yeti (he flew the Pride flag) and a defiant message stating “Those who broke our windows cannot break our spirit.” Now we were getting somewhere.

We started asking around at the local businesses.  Nothing to direct. Not, “Do you agree with the homophobes?” Just a little bit of open ended comments. No one wanted to comment. Not at the thrift store which was tended by a young woman with colorful tattoos. Or the coffee shop people who served incredibly delicious food along with their eclectic personalities. It was just a couple of MAGA signs in town, a few broken windows (a Google search found it happened on June 26, 2023 with several Pride related symbols attacked), and a whole bunch of townfolk not wanting to talk about it. Someone did say that they felt the town was split pretty much in half with some folk “conservative” and others not. I asked what was conservative about committing a hate crime. They had no answer. But in their silence was one definite truth. Morton is not nearly woke enough.

We stopped in Baker City for gas and then left a couple of hours later with a bottle of craft gin and a bottle of wine from the local vineyard. This was in addition to the tasty individualized lunch prepared for us by the local cheesemonger. The only question she asked was olives or almonds. From just that and, I don’t know, maybe our auras, she created a small personalized charcuterie board. Oh, and I can’t forget the chocolatier who also owns an incredible art gallery. It was, walk into the city just a bit to take a picture (the one above) and then have a casual conversation with a local which led us to one business which then led to more conversations and so on. The last business we passed was the reality office. Luckily (or maybe unluckily) they were closed for the day.

Today was such an awesome day, I am going to make like Quentin Tarantino and tell the day out of order. I’m edgy like that. So after we met the cheesemonger in Baker City (see The Most Magical Travel Day Part 1) but before hopping into a hopped up beer at 5th Line Brewing (Yakima, WA), Corey and I feasted on asparagus tamales. So much better than they sound. Don’t believe me? Well they don’t give out James Beard Awards to just anyone.

We actually got in kind of late. The chairs were up on the tables and the tamales were hours out of the oven. They were still stinking good. But I guess not as good as they are when they come right out of the oven. Still so good.

The only reason we knew about the magic tamale place was because of the owner of the antique store in Union Gap, WA. We were all set to eat somewhere else before he let it slip about the world famous eatery (and it is world famous, people come from all over to eat their tamales but tonight it was just Corey, myself and a tourist from Seattle).

Honestly was not expecting much out of Somewhere In Time but…well let’s just say we might be needing a bigger roof cab.

And then we stumbled upon this brewery a half block from our hotel. Come on! Right now a lunatic and an old man are debating on television. But Corey and I are just sitting outside. A couple of  kids are playing tether ball a bit too close to our table. If we look past the kids we see the mountains. A highway too. And there ain’t nowhere we would rather be.

We made our way northwest through the high desert all the way to downtown Boise, Idaho where we stopped for coffee and records. Downtown Boise is a pretty nice place to be. Shady too. Not shady like someone tried to sell me a watch. Shady as in it’s known for being “the city of trees.” And boy did we need that shade. One hundred degrees in the sun but quite comfortable in the shade.

After coffee we made our way to The Record Exchange where I, much to Corey’s chagrin, scored a late 1980s acoustic set by Gun ‘N Roses performed at CBGB.

In-between record stores and coffee shops we entertained ourselves by reading right wing bumper stickers. My favorite was “criminals love gun control, it makes for a safer work environment.” Others were a bit more dark. Like this one on the truck parked near our hotel:

Others signage spied along the route was a bit more confusing. This one definitely sent mixed messages.

It’s a crime to drink on the premises. But it’s only a misdemeanor, so you do you.

Something is going on with Mount Saint Helens. We are not geologists or even people who understand fancy science words. But from our limited understanding, Mount Saint Helens is recharging. And so are we. But with less lava. And more ski lifts; and believe me you have not lived until taking a ski lift with Corey.

We did a lot of laundry and had great pho at a brew pub that really had no business serving pho or anything even remotely more ethnic than grilled cheese.

Park City is a nice place. The least real feeling place we have ever been but still incredibly nice. And nice people too. Except for the homophobic rich prick who tried ripping down a pride flag. Came out of a BMW and started chanting some right wing crap about how that flag somehow negated the U.S. flag. That he looked at me for sympathy triggered me into saying a few words I probably should not have (and all this at the base of Main Street on one of the quietest street corners in all of America). He drove off in a huff then circled back about a block away. There he kept poking out of an alley like a rat, waiting for us to be picked up by the time share shuttle.

But that creep ain’t Park City. Park City is an older man with a shirt unbuttoned down to his waist walking with confidence. Park City is a kid driving a shuttle bus pitching his start-up idea to a couple of tourists from Chicago. It is a million dollar shack (500 square feet and in need of an update) perched at the top of Main Street. And lots of cool hikes, great food and nice people to spend time with. Like I said, it doesn’t feel real but it ain’t a bad place to be.

Moving day. After seven nights in the Tetons it was time to move on. On the last day our friend, a witty black bear we met on a trail, baked us a pie. A few of our favorite elk also swung by to say goodbye. All good things must come to an end.

So we drove to Park City, Utah. About 300 miles which for us means two coffee breaks. The first was in a small shanty-like structure stranded in a parking lot just a few feet off Route 89. The teenage girls working the joint were nice but seemed a bit put off by us wanting them to use our own travel mugs. I paid with a twenty and got back over eight dollars in quarters.

We also had a Cup of Joe in Evanston, WY. It was a nice place with friendly people and a large bagel/cream cheese selection (their motto is “Great coffee, bad puns and good food”). But what really impressed us was that a coffee shop can make it in a majority Mormon town (68.4 % per Wikipedia; Mormons do not drink coffee).

It’s all about Friends now. One after another while Corey and I both catch up on mindlessly scrolling on our phones. We have also done six loads of laundry with at least two more to go. The price for all this will be a two hour time share presentation tomorrow. It is going to be hard not to tell the sales person about all the fun we had back at the park.

Slow your roll. That’s what the digital sign says on the faster of the two roads linking the Colter Bay area to Jackson. And then it reads out a depressing collection of recent animal road kill.

I am happy to say that we have in fact successfully slowed our roll. It took a nasty blister to truly do so, but yesterday was a master class in doing little. And by crawling through the periphery of the park we managed to experience several previously unknown sights. We also had a delicious dinner (trout, salmon and potatoes over a fire with a good loaf of bread). But mostly it was two best friends doing what they do best which is not always the easiest thing to describe but something I wouldn’t trade for the world.