something important. We sped past casinos and fi elds and motels and more casinos. T e highway signs were green and boasted numbers in the middle of white profi les of George Washington facing leſt . T e rain fell like small elven hammers on the roof of our van. It took me hours to fi gure out that one highway overlapped another and one sign could say two diff erent numbers and not contradict itself. It took me even longer to fi gure out that the ‘South’ in ‘Highway 5 South’ indicated the direction we were headed, not the name of the highway, and chances were good the same stretch of highway, were we headed in the opposite direction, would be called ‘Highway 5 North’. Suddenly we were twisting our way through the middle
of Seattle with two lanes of traffi c on either side of us and the whites of our eyes shining like moons. T e wiper blades squeaked, rain pounded on the roof and I yelled directions. “Ease leſt to the next lane. No! Highway 5 sign. Ease right!” T rough the cracked front windshield of our van we saw such a jumble of tall buildings that I became even more confused. “Ease leſt . I think this is an exit-only lane and we want to get out of it. Or no. Oh bother – it IS an exit-only lane!” By the time we slid out the other end of Seattle, we were both exhausted and in shock. “Horrible,” I said. “Absolutely horrible.” “But now we can say we saw Seattle,” John said. “Honey, we ESCAPED Seattle,” I told him. “Sandwich?”
Wilma had packed such a lunch as most people can only dream of. Delicate sandwiches with slices of meat and cheese and pickle and lettuce and mayonnaise. John began to look more cheerful. Gradually the lanes lessened in numbers and the traffi c thinned in ferocity. “Which exit?” John asked. “Um, let me see,” I said. We rolled off the Interstate, turned
leſt and promptly got lost in the wilds of central Washington. How long and narrow the roads were, and how few vehicles there were, and what diffi culty we had deciding if we should turn leſt or right, and how the rain streamed out of the sky!
Finally we stumbled across Millersylvania State Park and aſt er a few minutes reading registration instructions, during which time we both got extremely wet, we leſt $21 in an envelope and then sloshed our way to a small campsite beneath a stand of startlingly tall pines. Except for the sounds of pouring rain, the camp was quiet.
T ere were no signs of life save two other vehicles parked at a distance from us in the luxury ‘electricity’ section. As soon as we parked, I pulled out my recorder and my music book and launched into such a rendition of ‘Yesterday’ that it drove John out into the lessening rain to set up the camp stove. By the time I’d staggered through the song twice, the rain had stopped. “We forgot the mugs,” John told me, holding the coff eepot in one hand and a lighter in the other. But we had two plastic tumblers, and that night the rain stopped long enough for me to cook potatoes and soup and brew coff ee. Sitting in the van, we ate pie for dessert, and then the rain came. We had so far seen no wildlife except one park ranger who waved (obviously a music afi cionado), and three raindrop-dodging mosquitoes who were shivering too hard to bite. But it was our honeymoon trip. So I pulled the curtains
closed and then we went to bed. What a wonderful honeymoon trip it was! 4
To read more from Catherine Dook, take a look at her latest boating book
Off shore ($18.95) available from
oberonpress.ca.
Her other two novels,
Darling, Call the Coast Guard, We’re on Fire Again ($15.95)
and Damn the Torpedoes ($16.95)
are published by Touchwood Editions and can be ordered by calling 1-800-665-3302.
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www.go-west.com RVT 143 • SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2011 33
Chalet
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