Revisiting The Dalles and Stonehenge

I have been either too tired or too busy to post since returning home.  But through my notes, itinerary, photos and souvenirs I have reconstructed our travels. I have also repeated some of the story and photos here from a previous post.

 

We left the hotel in The Dalles early, grabbed some breakfast and headed up to the Columbia River Gorge Discovery Center just west of The Dalles.  We spent some time there taking photos and exploring the little museum. I especially liked the life-size mammoth.

View from the Discovery Center

Rick hamming it up.

And me, too.

Meeting the mammoth

Rick at the Maryhill Art Museum

Mount Hood to the west of us now.

Then we headed upriver toward Maryhill, Washington.  I was expecting to find a town, but instead discovered that there is only an art museum—off by itself on a mountainside—and one of the American Stonehenges.  This one is built to scale, but seems misplaced in the landscape.  I was stunned at the emptiness of the landscape.  It was a high, dry, windy place with treeless rugged hills populated only by yellowed grass and white windmills. And the further east we went, the emptier it became.

We noticed an occasional thunk-ing sound in the transmission as we climbed higher in the Gorge.  It was a very bright, sunny day, and extremely dry (high desert), and I was sitting on the south side of the car.  I started to feel the heat even at the Stonehenge, but by the time we crossed into Washington, I was really cooking in the sun.  Heat exhaustion began to creep in, making me disoriented, irritable, unhappy.  I draped a towel over my window and part of my side of the windshield, but even the indirect light surrounding the car soon seemed to be overwhelming.  My eyes ached with the brightness of it.

Mile and miles of empty yellow rocky grass country.  Both the land and the grass were yellow, making a continuously bright reflective landscape.  And the transmission began to clunk more often.  My stomach lurched with anxiety—would we get stuck out here in this empty place with no cell service?  

We entered Hermiston, Oregon, and decided to try to get the transmission looked at.  The Ford dealership was no help whatsoever—wanting us to come in the next morning with a minimum of $140 just to look at it. We tried to rent a room, but there was a rodeo in town and there were no rooms available.  We stopped at a Les Schwab tire center and asked them for a recommendation.  They sent us up the highway a little further to Pioneer Transmission.  There a very knowledgeable, helpful man named Mark spent the better part of an hour running diagnostics, and test driving the Explorer.  His final verdict: there was nothing wrong with our transmission; it was simply too small to tote a trailer. 

This meant a change of plans.  Now we would have to hope we could make it to the Quad Cities, then figure out a way to sell the Explorer and buy something bigger that would tow the trailer home to Oregon, loaded with furniture.  Another issue to fret over, but I tried to remain optimistic—if anyone could make such a thing happen, we could! 

So we got back on the highway, across that empty landscape. Interstate 84 (which is also US Route 30—the Lincoln Highway) conjoins with Interstate 82 there at Hermiston, which then runs north crossing over the Columbia River into Washington. From there we picked up the Interstate 182, crossing the river again at Kennewick, Washington, to pick up US Highway 395 toward the I-90. 

A point of  interest in an otherwise naked landscape.

Approaching Kennewick

 

We spent the night at Ritzville, right at the junction of 90, and watched a fat full moon rise over the moon-like landscape.  We had been on the road all day, arriving just at sunset, but only traveled a little over 200 miles—sightseeing and the car issue had delayed us by an extra day.  My original plan had us in Idaho or Montana, but you must remain flexible when traveling, because stuff happens.