Some of my favorite boat trip stories take place down a road like this.

But, until now, anyway, none of them have a scene like this.

I’m pretty sure there was “something else” happening here.  When I asked the lady behind the counter about the broom just standing in the middle of the floor, she said, “Oh, that broom?  It just walks in here, and stands around, a lot…”  No, it isn’t hanging from the ceiling, or on a pole.  Just “standing there.”  I asked if I could take the lady’s picture, and she said “OK”.  No, I don’t remember shaking, or the wind blowing, or anything.  But, here’s what I got.

I bought a cup of coffee from a nice lady, in this place.

And, I met a guy I went to 7th grade with, and never knew.  While, he and I were two of the only three humans in a 500 acre campground, out watching the Blood Moon change from crimson to eclipse to full as it rose over the trees on the edge of a 90,000 acre forest fire just recently out.  Standing, about 6 feet above the cracked mud, on a set of docks left high and dry by receding lake water.

No, not in the sunshine, but dark ‘er than the inside of a cow. Yep.  Quite an adventure.  And, if it wasn’t for this guy (starting motor), I probably wouldn’t have even gone.

This story starts out at a woodcarvers’ show and ends a few days later, right here.

Please let me tell you about it.  And, in the time-honored fashion, I’ll start near the end, and work my way forward.  Except, I will need to go back about eight years, first.

I was off on my first major trek around the country towing “Lady Bug” my road warrior pocket cruiser.  We had already covered the puddles and oceans from San Diego to Puget Sound, and were by then, in eastern Washington State.

It was a Sunday morning, and I had managed to “get lost” down a road that sort of promised to take me from a small puddle named Loon Lake to a real big one called Lake Roosevelt.  It was still early, and I just sort of pulled in behind a little diner-and-store where the road promised to get me even lost-er.  This was the summer of 2008.  I’ve never been back.  Until today.  It’s one of my fondest road trip recollections.  Like I said, from eight years ago.

I parked the rig out back with the log trucks.  California plates and hull numbers.   Red sailboat, and a big ‘ol Chevy van.  As I went in, the place was full of people - about a 5-table joint - apparently coming from church.  Since most everybody seemed to have their “own” table, I took a “single” one in the corner.  By the back door.  The waitress was obviously busy, and steamed by me several times without stopping.  Finally, I got eye contact and she screeched to a halt in front of me.  Somewhat surprisingly, she blurted out, “You want something!?!”  I answered that I would like to order breakfast, to a quick rejoinder, “Well, you hafta’ ASK!!”   Things deteriorated a bit more, when she asked me if I wasn’t the individual towing the sailboat, now out back of her establishment.  Whereupon.

She went out into the center of the small eating area, and announced in her very best “y’all ain’t from ‘round heah” voice:  “See that guy over there in the corner???  He’s from CAL-I-FORRRRRNIA!!”

As it turned out, after I took the opportunity to stand and address the crowd, with, “Thanks for welcoming me to your town.  And, since it’s Sunday; would you mind if I face away from the wall??”  After that, things went better.  In fact,   I learned that the waitress had a husband who was 20+ years into building a boat in the barn.  She told me some more of her personal history.  And, I left chortling to myself.  Oh yeah.  She told me something else that I have re-used often. 

Just today when I stopped at that same little greasy spoon, to buy a cup of coffee and to watch a broom stand alone in the middle of the floor; I started telling the lady behind the counter about my first visit there.  I said that my waitress had told me, that “Behind every successful farmer, is a wife with a job in town.”  That lady’s name is Jill.  The one in the blurred and crooked picture.  The one with the broom that just stands around.  Some more dots, connected.

Phil, is the guy who sort of talked me into making this voyage.  Actually, it was my idea, first.  Then when nobody wanted to go, I dropped it.  So, a couple days ago I get a message, “I’m on my way to meet up with you at Hunters…”  A good enough excuse to hook up a boat, toss in some canned goods and clean clothes, and head a hundred or so miles over the mountains, if there ever was.

October starts later this week.  It’s already been below freezing a few nights.  This is the same week we did the movable messabout last September.  This is my fourth September visit to Hunters.  Either on scouting trips, or actually with a messabout group.  I think I can make it official.  NOBODY goes there after Labor Day.  Empty.  Solitary.  The lake to yourself.  Just the thing for next year’s September Surprise Mini Cruise.   In fact.

Phil and I were talking about just that while having dinner at Hunters’ one and only evening-eatery.  The Hunters Inn is the local dive.  But, they sell beer and food.  And, we were both tired of what comes out of a can.  So, up the hill and across the mesa from our quite-deserted campground.  We had already been out on the lake scouting anchorages and beach camping spots much of the afternoon.  And, there’s a half-bazillion of ‘em out there.  Some of them look like this.

And, some, like this.

But, no matter which way we took ol’ “Mobius” the stinkpot, there was one thing, for certain.  NO PEOPLE.  Just about no boats.  And, we ran north and south from the base camp about 100 miles, all told.  Did I tell you we had it ALL TO OURSELVES?

Even the “marina” at the campground had exactly two boats tied up.  Phil’s and mine.

That heart-of-gold Chevy-six drank around 20 gallons of high test.  We gave the place a thorough look-around.  This is one special place. 

God willing, this where I expect to spend the THIRD WEEK OF SEPTEMBER 2016.  Starting with breakfast at Lora’s Kitchen and Espresso (which just happens to be in the Hunters Hardware Store.)

They open up at 10 o’clock, on Sundays.  Lora said she’s save you a table.  Me?  I like that one over by the nail bins.  Like I was saying.

Phil and I had dinner at the local tavern.  He says his enchilada was pretty good.  My fettuccini could - and well may have - come out of a can.  In fact I think there is such a can in the locker back in Big Ole, the van.  But so what?  I think we got to mix with about half of the local population.  And, on the way out I got the bright idea to stop at the store next door and get an ice cream bar.  I remember the guy who holds down the night shift, from my last visit(s).  Same Army ball cap.  Same pleasant manner and quick smile.  I’d guess that my ice cream bar had been frozen on at least several occasions.  Kinda’ crumbly.  So, we headed for outside, so as not to make a mess.  And, wow!

There’s this ’59 Chevy El Camino tail gate and tail lights sticking out of a garage door.  Just across from where the highway makes a hairpin turn.  Right in the middle of town.

Sort of next to the museum.  And, across the road from the biggest tractor collection this side of the John Deer plant.  Except, each and every one of these chuggers are over-eligible for social security.  And, packed into a “city lot” or two that may have once been a business or warehouse, or who-knows-what.  Tractors, trucks, even a fire engine or two.  But, it was the Chevy that we decided to go check out. It’s dark out, now.  There’s a dim light off to the side of the ‘Camino.  And, I see a broom handle working - apparently by itself.  Is a pattern emerging?

After the “universal salutation” that I find useful in these free-form expeditions, “Hey, guy!  Is that the original paint…?”  A fellow emerged from the shadows.  “Nope…been repainted…once…bought it new…”  Also in the garage was a WWII baby cat, a vintage Minn’Moline,  a collection of make & break engines, and a grand daughter.  She was on the lower end of the broom handle. Deftly sweeping the floor, while apparently not missing a single bon mot via text message.  I asked him about the tractors across the road.  His, too.  Come to find out, this is somebody else that I “know” without ever having talked to him.  Mick is the guy I sent the pictures to, of last September’s messabout gang sitting on his tractors, standing amid the ancient iron, and generally having a ball.

Mick says there will be a car show the third Sunday in September.  And, of course, he’ll be there to show off his other rolling stock as well.  Sounds like an excellent start for a mini cruise, if you ask me!

I asked about the museum.  And lo and behold, this guy’s wife is one of the movers and shakers in an effort to re-open it.  This guy’s name is Dale.

Phil and I just sort of rafted up with him out in the middle of a two-hundred mile long lake.  The only boats for miles and miles.  We had a friendly gam about the things “boys talk about.”  He invited me over to his house, to see his stone masonry and rock houndery.  There was implicit assumption that I could also see at least some of his considerable armory.  Which brings me to a story that will have to wait to be completed.

That road in the first picture - it think - leads to Dale’s house.  After a half mile or so from the highway, just before what looks like the beginning of a steep descent, is a sign.  With a simple admonition.  “No trespassing.  Private road.  For land owners only.”  Since I was towing a sizeable trailer.  I was gonna’ have to back out to the highway already.  And, more to the point, being a Coward of the First Order; I chose not to proceed.  At least not today.  But, hopefully, again sometime.  I had asked Dale if I came back in the spring, if he’d teach me to fish.  He didn’t say no.  And, another thing was weighing a bit on the back burners of my cranium.  That pontoon boat of his has significant marks of a re-construction.  Seems he rolled it off the trailer on the mountain road that I was just about to take on my own way home.  One of those twisting roads, with significant drop offs, and no shoulders.  Not my favorite place to be, for my ancient van and his original equipment shocks. And, that near-four thousand pound load out back.  So, hopefully next spring.  After Dale goes to collect more rocks in Arizona.

I really would like to learn how to catch a wall eye.

So, it was over the hills and down the valleys and off to that little diner in Springdale.  The one with the broom that just stands around.  And, my friend, Jill.

Next stop - quite unplanned - was that puddle from long ago.  Loon Lake.  The ramp was pretty deep.  The narrow channel out to the lake, not so much.  I found myself anchored with the prop down.  So, I paddled “Mobius” the hundred yards or so out to the lake.

We made a high speed run all the way around.  You guessed it.  Nobody else out there.  With the gas gauge bouncing on the “E”, we clambered back on the trailer.  That one, was for old time’s sake. 

One never knows.  We may never pass this way again.  Do it now.  Do it, again.  It’s a big world out there, with lots and lots of really nice people in it.

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