7-23 10 p.m. Hells Gate State Park, Lewiston, Idaho Yes, another long day with minimal advance, but again worth it. this time it was not fun and games. Indeed, I didn't wet a line all day, even though I was rigged up and ready. I got going a little earlier this morning, having gained another hour in the time zone change yesterday. I had decided to check out all the local historical sites, meaning Long Camp, Weippe Prairie and Canoe Camp, and then I figured to head on to Washington. Long Camp is now a hayfield across the river from the historical sign on US 12. Not much to see. I decided almost on an impulse to follow FR 100 from Kamiah to FR 500, to see how far I could get and maybe get a sense of what they felt like when they saw the prairie. FR 100 wound around a long time and finally brought me to Lolo Camp. Across the road a sign said "500 ------>," so I turned there but only found a couple of campsites. The road was a few yards further, on the other side of a small creek. I was surprised to find it open, and I started to climb. It wasn't too bad at first, very narrow, but reasonably well graded. There were occasional historical signs about L&C incidents. At its western end, 500 doesn't match the L&C route as closely as up closer to Lolo Pass, but the route crosses it several times, and it's close enough to get a real sense of the ordeal the men went through. I took one side road that was in fact their route when they climbed up from Hungry Creek. I kept expecting a downed tree or a USFS gate to appear and block the way. But someone has been very busy with chainsaws. The road was clear. I came back to 500 and continued on. I decided to try for Sherman Peak if I could get through. A sign said it was 19 miles. I have to admit I was fearful enough to be very alert. The road is one track with some turnouts. It is steep, sometimes rocky, but not deeply rutted. It does not follow ridgelines, like the scenic byway in the Missouri Breaks. It is instead a slab route, built on the slopes of the mountains by removing slabs. So the whole time you are riding on the edge of terribly steep hills, with no guardrails, and no room for 2 vehicles to pass. In wooded areas I felt more secure because I figured the trees would stop my fall. On open slopes it was terror. Well, not quite, but it was no picnic. I met only a few other vehicles, and there were adequate turnouts when they showed up. I made it out to Sherman Peak, whence Lewis first saw the Camas Prairie and felt "inexpressible joy." A one-mile trail goes to the summit after branching off a 3-mile trail that drops down to Horse Sweat Pass. I wanted to go to the summit, so I started out there, but I never found the branch that goes up. Maybe I didn't go far enough, but I came to a spot where it appeared a lot of horses had been and had obscured all trails. I didn't want to risk getting lost there, so I came back. I did climb up some rocks above the trail, but not high enough to see the prairie. It was certainly clear enough, a beautiful day. What I could see were mountains, mountains, mountains. I did get a sense of the exhilaration they must have felt at that moment, ascending the ridge to the summit and suddenly seeing the flat brown of the prairie in the haze beyond the mountain ridges. I had seen the prairie myself from farther below, near Kamiah. I want to add a paragraph or two to the book describing it. Well, it was 2:30 by the time I got back in Wesley Powell. It took an hour to backtrack the 19 miles and pick up FR 103, which ended up a long loose-gravel road winding down a slab to Lolo Creek, then finally picking up FR 100, which took me to Idaho 11 and Weippe, about 4:30. I was on dirt roads from 9:30 to 4:30. It was a dry, hot, dusty day, and everything is covered with dust. I was tired and dirty and ready to camp. I thought I could find good camping at Orofino, but one site is far away and the other is RVs only. I visited Canoe Camp and continued on U.S. 12, stopping for pictures of the Clearwater's rapids once in a while. My gas gauge was nearing empty, and I couldn't see any good campsites. The fact is I hadn't really looked into Idaho sites last night, cause I figured I'd get to Washington. Then, on the way down the mountain, I figured somewhere near Canoe Camp would be good, having seen the camping symbol near there in the DeLorme Atlas. Now I didn't know what to do. I prayed I would get far enough for gas and tried to steel myself for a motel stay. Then I looked more closely at the pamphlets and saw how close this is (4 miles S of U.S. 12), and all the amenities (showers), and I came here. Now I am so tired I can hardly see, so I'm going to bed. Oh, yes, I did find gas, too.

7-24 9:50 p.m. Charbonneau Park beside the Snake River, just east of Pasco, Washington. It was a somewhat frustrating day trying to deal with 2 different routes and the back roads of Washington. L&C crossed the SE corner of Washington twice. Going out in 1805, they went down the Snake. Returning in 1806, the struck overland from just south of here to cut the corner formed by the Snake and save about 80 miles. The roads don't follow either route very faithfully. I was prepared to spend a couple of days in here, following the river to the Columbia on back roads, then backtracking on U.S. 12 to follow the overland route. As it turned out, I did neither, but it doesn't really matter. In Lewiston I visited the Luna Museum and then finally tracked down the Interpretive Center, in spite of the lack of signs. Then I crossed the Clearwater and got on a narrow road that followed the river closely for a while, then suddenly cut away on a washboard gravel road, unsigned, and dumped me on the road to Pullman. I wound around in the high prairie (up to 2,500 feet, the river was 750 at Lewiston) in the great rounded hills covered with wheat, and made my way back to the river at Lower Granite Dam, where I lingered in the fish viewing room waiting for a steelhead or salmon to go by, but all I saw were carp. The dam was impressive, both the fish ladder and the lock, which can raise or lower the 100-foot difference in a mere 10 minutes. I continued on back roads on the south side of the river, checking out crossings but finally concluding the land around the lower Snake is pretty much the same -- bare hills of basaltic rock, badlands and cliffs. I went off trail to see the spectacular Palouse Falls in the midst of a landscape that could have been Arizona. Then I backtracked to U.S. 12, an easier drive than the backroads, largely following the L&C 1806 return route. At Walla Walla I bought a 25-pound bag of onions, and I visited the Whitman Mission site, a nice restoration and a tragic story. By then it was 5:30, so I hurried on to here by U.S. 12 then 124. It's a Corps of Engineers facility, geared to RVs, but rather quiet and peaceful anyway. What the hell -- a shower and running water for $12, it beats Motel 6. I really am glad I've camped all this way, and not only because of the expense. If I stayed in motels, I would not get so much done, because the TV would be on and so on. In camp, I have chores to do, which helps to focus me. And the routines help me feel a little closer to the L&C expedition, just as fighting the twists and turns of the backroads adds some of the elements of delay and frustration the men felt as they dealt with rapids and rocks and unfriendly Indians. It is impossible to fully replicate their experience, of course, but this is a pretty good modern equivalent. Everything in the car is covered with dust after yesterday's tour on the Lolo Motorway. Today it was over 100 degrees, but I was strong and refused to turn on the a/c. L&C didn't have a/c. They also didn't have sunglasses. I haven't been wearing mine anyway, but today I accidentally sat on them and broke off the left earpiece. It's time for new ones anyway, I guess. This trip is nearing an end. I'm not really prepared for that. It doesn't feel like it's near an end, so I'm not going to get into that now. Mostly for the last 17 days, I've been good about being in the here and now, but my mind is starting to wander some now. I will try to be wary of that.

7-25 9:40 p.m. Memaloose S.P., Oregon, halfway between The Dalles and Hood River. I won't recount the frustrating morning I had. I wrote enough about that in the other book. Suffice to say that regardless of how justified my anger was, it was my expectations that were to blame. With the unpleasantness of Pasco behind me, it was good to be following the river again. And even though the Columbia really isn't a river anymore, it is interesting as it winds between the high cliffs of basalt and no trees. I got cash and campground information at Umatilla, Oregon, then went back over to Washington and followed Route 14, hugging tight to the river, sometimes at its edge, sometimes high above. I kept looking for Mt. Hood. Clark saw it from the mouth of the Walla Walla, but that was in the days before irrigation and plows raising the dust of dry fields. Even though the sky was cloudless, the land created enough haze to obscure the mountain until I was past Roosevelt, where I stopped for a patty melt lunch at The Shark, which appeared to be the whole town, and when I got there I think the whole population was having lunch there. It was after 1, maybe after 1:30 when I got there, so I didn't take offense when everyone left a few minutes after I got there. If they hadn't I might not have gotten served. As it was, the waitress-bartender-hostess-manager had to make sure those who were there could get along without her while she went to make my burger. She did a right fine job of it, too. The decor of the place was in-your-face bumper stickers: "If it's got tits or tires, you've got trouble..." and the like. I should have written them down. I drove down to the river below John Day Dam. The lock was lowering a barge, but I couldn't get on the dam to watch as I had at Lower Granite yesterday. I got some pictures of Mt. Hood from river level, and of the Indian fishing platforms, where they stand to spear the migrating salmon as treaties allow. Then came Stonehenge. An early eccentric entrepreneur named Sam Hill built a replica of Stonehenge as a memorial to men of Klickitat County who died in WWI. A little further on was Maryhill Museum, high on a cliff above the river. It's in Hill's old house, a genuine mansion, and it features one of the most eclectic collections I've seen. A lot is devoted to treasures of a Romanian princess who was friends with Hill. There's a gallery of American classical realism, and a room full of Rodins, and another full of Native American artifacts. One room boasts some magnificent chess sets, and another has chess sets designed and made by schoolchildren. It's impossible to wander through there and not feel good. Then it was off to find a place to lay my head for the night. I checked out Horsethief Lake S.P. in Washington, just upstream from the Dalles. It's in the area where L&C portaged around Celilo Falls. But the campsites were tightly packed and unshaded, and there were no showers, so I came on to here. The entrance to here is a freeway rest stop, and the freeway is close enough to hear, but not see. Below us, between here and the river, is a railroad, and several trains have passed loudly below. But the annoying thing is, of course, the sprinklers. They have been running since I got here, and it appears they will run all night. Well, it was never meant to be a wilderness experience. I should reach Cape Disappointment tomorrow, but I may have real problems with camping. The public campgrounds on the coast are jam-packed full; I tried in vain to make reservations. I will just have to hope for the best and trust in H.P. There's a lot to see between here and Cape Disappointment, so I don't know if I'll get to Fort Clatsop tomorrow. I'll see and accept what comes.

7-26 Chinook Bait&Tackle and RV Park 8:50 p.m. There is sea mist in the hills around me. My nostrils are not filled with salt, though. I smell cedar logs burning next door. The couple there are doting on their dog and listening to a Kenny G tape. It will do. Considering that I left my site this morning with no confidence of finding a bed tonight, or of reaching the ocean, I am pleased to have done both. From the mouth of the Missouri to the mouth of the Columbia, as hard as I could make it for myself, in reason. I was in an ill humor this morning, having slept little while listening to the all-night sprinklers. I dwelled on it far too long as I crossed back to Washington and meandered through the gorge, with Mt. Hood looming high above the town of Hood River. I pondered the boat ride at Cascade Locks, and decided to list it as a maybe for a side trip later. I went to Bonneville Dam and spent some time watching big steelhead fight their way up the fish ladder. Anadramous fish are always humbling. I drove up into Beacon Rock State Park so I could photograph that landmark from above. Another possible post-trip side-trip -- the trail to the top of B.R. After that, there was really no reason to stop for a long time. I negotiated through Vancouver's freeways and popped out 35 miles north at Longview, where I gassed up and proceeded on, looking for lunch beyond the franchises and neon. I found it at L&J's café, not associated with a town, but not far from Grays River. I was the only customer at 1:45 p.m. On advice of the proprietor/cook, Leonard, I ordered the steak burger. While it was cooking, I looked around the adjacent store, as eclectic in its vernacular way as the Maryhill Museum was in its highbrow way. I saw camping gear, binoculars, hardware, videotapes (for rent, soon for sale), shooting supplies. "What's your specialty?" I asked Tom, the owner. "Guns," he said, and he flung open a vault door and started showing me his collection, not the standard shotguns, but collector's items, specially made, re-made, repaired, altered 19th century shooting pieces from Europe and the U.S. Some guns carry a much higher price in Europe than in the U'States, but not American-made guns, which are usually of inferior workmanship and quality. "Serial Number 1," he said of one strange looking pistol. European collectors also don't mind guns with replaced parts, Tom said, while Americans demand the pure thing. A bumper sticker on the counter said, "Anti-Tyrrany is not Anti-American." A poster on the wall showed Bill and Hillary Clinton as parodies of American Gothic. I ate my steakburger, which was delicious ("I grind lean beef fresh every day," Leonard told me), then bought a pretty good pair of binoculars from Tom. I checked at the covered bridge at Gray's River, but didn't see Meryl Streep. Then I got off SR 4 and followed 401 around the peninsula jutting into Gray's Bay, past the Bridge to Astoria, where it becomes 101. I paused to pay homage at the Lewis & Clark campsite and photograph the weird wood-carved statue of them there, then pulled in here, the first camp I'd seen since turning off Route 4. He rented me an RV space for tent price ($10 for the night). I set up my tent in the wrong spot and had to move it, then I hurried out to Cape Disappointment and the L&C Interpretive Center. I beheld the Pacific Ocean, and I got throat lumps as I entered the center, but soon I was just grinning, feeling happy and very much at home reading the panels and nodding. It's all so familiar to me now. I love it. The center closed at 5, so I only had about 45 minutes there. I'd like to go again in the morning, then cross the river (as L&C did on Nov. 25, 1805) and go on to Fort Clatsop, and maybe the salt works and Ecola Beach. As I walked up to the Interpretive Center, I said a prayer. I thanked God for guiding me on a trip with no end, and getting me to the end. It makes sense to me. (Later, in the tent): All is damp from sea mist. I will let the sun burn it off in the morning. It is chilly here, too. It never got hot today, after several days of 100+ temps crossing eastern Washington. This RV park is right by U.S. 101, but the traffic is not too bad. And there is no railroad and no sprinklers. My neighbors have gone to bed. They're a couple about my age w/ a half-lab, half Newfoundland "replacement child" they dote on. They're from Moscow, Idaho, and are here with a boat, fishing for sturgeon. They caught only small ones today. The guy who checked me in here this afternoon said, "I have a daughter in Phoenix." "Oh, really? What part?" "I have no idea. She doesn't like me. Says I ruined her mother's life." Pause. "She's probably right." Hard to tell if he's sad or glad about it.

7-28 9:30 a.m. Baby Clam Restaurant, Seaside, OR I never do seem to write in my journal on the last day. I always wait. I think it's a form of extending the journey... Yesterday I awoke to the voices of my camping neighbors very early. I tried to ignore it, but it was no use. I finally got up and found everything dewy and gray above me, but no ground fog. The first I knew about the bombing in Atlanta was my neighbors talking about it. Once of them commented, "Well, we keep lettin' them people in here," apparently referring to foreign terrorists. "Right," I thought, "Like Tim McVeigh." As of last night, the media were hinting the investigation is leaning toward domestic terrorism. What a surprise... Anyway, it was a low note on which to start the day. I drove out to Cape Disappointment, all the way out along the beach beside the jetty. I walked on the beach and took pictures, climbed on the jetty and took pictures. All was grey and foggy and cold. Lonely. I trained my binoculars on the water in hopes of seeing seals, but saw none. Then I went back up to the Interpretive Center and went through the whole thing again thoroughly, even watched the slide show presentation about the Trail and a short video about building dugout canoes. I talked with the volunteer host for a long time about a variety of L&C subjects, then tore myself away to head for Ft. Clatsop. The rip-rap was crowded with weekend sturgeon fishermen. I stopped for a photo of the mouth of the river and watched a man land a 4-foot sturgeon. The thrill must be in the eating. The catching seemed more a matter of just cranking the reel and having a friend help you lift the fish from the water. I crossed the 4-mile bridge and followed the signs to Ft. Clatsop. I forewent lunch to get as much from it as I could. It's a great interpretive site and reconstruction. There's a living history program that's very accessible. I talked to a ranger who was shaving an elk hide. It will be brain-tanned when they are done with it, and they'll use it to make the clothes they wear out there. The same girl did a muzzle loader demonstration. I walked around the grounds, to the spring and the canoe landing point. I think I got a good sense of the country, and I was pleased that my conceptions about it were largely accurate. I bought some souvenirs and then drove down here to Seaside to see the salt works. I decided to splurge and got an oceanside room at the Hi-Tide Motel. I got there right at 4 p.m., which is when no-show rooms are given away. I got the last one, for $110. It's worth it. I worked on the novel in comfort, walked down the prom to a seafood restaurant (Dungeness Crab appetizer, clam chowder, grilled swordfish). I went to the aquarium and then back to the room for more work and a fade out with banal TV. I may go back to Ft. Clatsop today for a last, brief visit, and then maybe start south. I just don't know yet. HP has done all right by me so far on this trip.

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