New England

6/27/12         

        With a slow morning start we headed for Washington D.C. high and low points, although not a state, we're here and, hey, why not?

        Primate bobbed and weaved through morning traffic and parked the car within an easy stroll of Reno Point at 410 feet. Within minutes we again bobbed and weaved our way towards Jones Point in Alexandria, Virginia, the closest land spot to D.C.'s low point about 100 hundred feet from the shore line.

        East we drove, past Annapolis, across the Chesapeake Bay and turned south.

        "Hey, look," I said in a loud voice, because the windows were down to let in air, "the world's largest watermelon." I pointed and Dr. Bobo looked, but I got no response from Christopher, riding in his spot in the back seat.

        Fields of corn grew along the roadside periodically, some sprouting flowers.

        "Damn, a bug hit me," Christopher yelled. I heard a smack and looked around to see him wiping his face with his hand.

        "Got whacked by a bug"? I asked and Dr. Bobo echoed.

        We detoured into Easton to get lunch supplies.

        Dr. Bobo prepared us sandwiches of cold cuts, cheese, spicy peppers, mayo and mustard, and we consumed them as we rode.

        I detected the odor of pine, and looked to see tall specimens on both sides of the roadway. They went on for miles in thick groves and scattered amongst other trees.

        We passed a filling station advertising gas at $3.23.9 per gallon.

        "That's the record?" Dr. Bobo asked.

        "Yes," Christopher confirmed.

        We passed a sign that read, "Farm Fresh Raised Vegetables." I mentioned this to Dr. Bobo who had missed it.

        Dr. Bobo said, "Yea, free range."

        Tractors with mowing equipment worked in places to cut high grass. The smell of fresh cut grass reminded me of adolescent days when Dad would say, "I want you to cut the grass this weekend." Primate hated doing chores, but loved the smell of gasoline, and I loved the smell of fresh cut grass.

        Dr. Bobo determined Chincoteague, Virginia, offered our easiest and closest access to the ocean, another state low point. We followed a two-lane road over a marshy bay to the town. Our short lived stay lasted no more than 15 minutes.

        "This is the southern most point of this trip," Dr. Bobo pointed out.

        We headed north again towards Ocean City beach. Digital bank signs read 86 and 87 degrees. Christopher and Dr. Bobo complained about the heat, particularly when we waited at red lights. Primate drove quietly.

        Once we found the correct street, following Dr. Bobo's maps and GPS device, we parked the car and strolled through the sand to the water's edge at the boundary of Maryland and Delaware, low points for both.

        "Good enough," Dr. Bobo said.

        After each of us touched the Atlantic water we returned to the car and ventured north again.

        We settled on a campsite in northern Delaware, an easy drive to tomorrow's goals, but a stop at a seafood restaurant beforehand provided a welcomed change to our usual meal.

        "I figure you wanted to sleep," he responded.

        The campground at Lums Pond State Park, AKA Lums Mosquito Colony, proved difficult for us to  find but we arrived and set up our tents before dusk.

        Low points - fourteen; high points - ten. We added another 411 miles to our trip today.

6/28/12         

        The mosquitoes slept when we broke camp and Primate drove us north to Ebright Azimuth, Delaware's high point at 448 feet. Dr. Bobo introduced us to Doreen who lives next to the official spot and provided us with a history of the site, as well as local color. We found Doreen delightful to meet and more than helpful to us.

Primate, Christopher & Dr. Bobo Cross The Road At Ebright Azimuth, Delaware's High Point.

        Following Dr. Bobo's directions, we traveled east-southeast to Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania, and climbed over the rail at a local park to touch the water. We considered this a low point.

        Dr. Bobo explained. "This is a tidal basin and the high tidal mark counts."

        Primate continued driving as Dr. Bobo guided us northeast into New Jersey. We stopped in Perth Amboy to touch water in Raritan Bay for New Jersey's low point. Soon we crossed the bridge to Staten Island to touch the water there and consider it New York's low point. We were on a roll. We headed across New Jersey for our next objective.

        Gas prices dropped. “There’s $3.19.9,” I said.

        Later, Dr. Bobo commented, “There’s $3.13.9.”

        We speculated about how low the prices would drop. “$3.13.9 is the record, so far,” Christopher said.

        The temperature dropped noticeably as we wound around the road to High Point on Kittatinny Mountain, 1803 feet, New Jersey’s high point. An obelisk, much like the Washington Monument in D.C., stood on the summit.

        When he discovered we could climb the steps inside, Dr. Bobo said, "I'm going to climb up. Want to come?"

        I started up but soon realized, when I looked up to see the steps winding there way around the open interior, that I didn't have the nerve nor the energy to do it. I felt weak and didn't have the will to overcome my trepidation. Christopher waited outside. I walked down the hill to the car for a needed snack. Views of forested hills stretched away from us on all to the north, east and south.

        Christopher said,"I wonder if these views before settlers came were much the same as ours."

        "Probably,” I said. I couldn't see much evidence of human activity from where we stood.

        We continued our quest, headed northeast. Here and there along the way I smelled the sweet fragrance of trees, flowers and weeds in bloom.

        A good gravel road brought us the final few miles to the trail head of Mt. Frissell. Our best guesses left us to conclude we had time enough to hike the 2.6 miles, round trip, and still make our campsite destination by dusk. Good trail soon led us to steep slope with exposed rock which required use of  hands for balance. We complained, grunted, groaned as we climbed higher, but our progress was steady, in spite of the need for Dr. Bobo and I to catch our breath occasionally. Christopher went on ahead. The trail led us up, back down again, then up towards the summit of Mt. Frissell. Near the summit the trail led us down and around the mountain where we stopped at a point on the slope at the boundary of Massachusetts and Connecticut. Here we stopped at the highest point of Connecticut at 2,380 feet, on the south slope of Mt. Frissell.

        The hike up and short stop for photos took us 55 minutes, then we hurried down the mountain and within 35 minutes were at the car.

        We moved on. Primate drove north across Massachusetts, past forest and fields, towards Greylock Mountain.

        The road curved around and up until it ended at a parking lot. Primate eased us into a space.

        "That’ll be six-dollars," the attendant said as Primate turned off the car’s engine.

        The summit hike required a five-minute walk to the Greylock Monument one-quarter mile away, Massachusetts’ high point at 3487 feet. We examined the monument, looked at the surrounding countryside, took photos, and then moved on.

        South and east we went. Winding our way across Massachusetts roads into Connecticut until we crossed the Mystic River. 

        "Turn here," Dr. Bobo instructed.

        We made our way to the waterfront at Williams Beach Park. Nearby a YMCA summer camp occupied a group of young girls and boys, but we casually crossed the beach to the water, took photos, and left, our Connecticut low point achieved.

        Small town traffic lights and local vehicles slowed our progress, yet we continued our quest and headed east. Within a few miles we had crossed the border into Rhode Island.

        Vehicles filled the paid parking lots as far as we could see along Misquamicut Beach. There appeared to be available paid parking but we didn’t want to pay for a five-minute visit to the beach, so Primate and I sat in the car at a pullout while Dr. Bobo and Christopher made their pilgrimage across the road, through a parking lot, and disappeared over the sand berm.

        Several minutes passed. As agreed, Dr. Bobo returned to stay with the car while Primate and I rendezvoused with Christopher who waited near the beach, and then continued to the surf’s edge for Rhode Island’s low point.

Primate Leaves Rhode Island Low Point.

        Crowds lined the beach in both directions as far as I could see.

        Primate said, “Too many people.”

        I agreed. I didn’t like the feel of wall-to-wall people outdoors. Who would want to come here for an afternoon?

        Once photos recorded our presence here, we headed to another place, this time north through Rhode Island.

        Primate parked the car at the rise of a gentle hill. We crossed the paved road and then followed a drive padded with pine needles that muffled the sounds of our footsteps. We relished the shade of the trees. A 100 yards stroll brought us to a rock outcrop with a small stone cairn.

        Dr. Bobo referred to his GPS device. “This is it.”

        We were at the Rhode Island high point of Jerimoth Hill at 812 feet.

        Late in the day we were determined to get as far as possible during daylight. We settled on Salisbury’s State Park in Massachusetts and considered ourselves lucky to get the pick of the last two campsites of the 484 there.

        Dinner of instant rice with canned chili, spicy peppers and beer came after sunset, while we fought off insects.

        We were careful not to flaunt our beer openly since the park rules forbade alcohol. As Dr. Bobo commented in that regard, “Well, I got rid of mine as quickly as I could.”

        Low points – nineteen; high points - fifteen.

Harper’s Ferry

6/25/12         

        Another easy morning greeted us.

        The night before I had asked the campground attendant, "Is there any chance of rain?"

        "Thirty percent chance," she stated. "I wish it would."

        "Having a dry spell?"

        "Yes."

        All our gear dried out and there wasn't a hint of dew.

        We broke camp and headed for Indiana's high point. Within thirty minutes Primate parked the car near the mound, Hoosier Hill, at 1257 feet. If not marked, no one would suspect it was a high point.

        Onward we drove, south and southeast to the outskirts of Cincinnati, where we headed southwest to the confluence of the Great Miami and Ohio Rivers. The closest land approach is owned by an electric power company. We pulled up to the power station Visitor's Center. Dr. Bobo explained our goal to a security guard at the counter inside and requested permission to use a paved road that would lead us to the exact location we wanted.

        "Ok," the guard said, not as permission, but as recognition that he understood our request. He picked up a phone at his desk. "Yes, I have three gentleman here ... " He explained the whole story, then hung up and said, "She'll call back."

        I joked, "Well, that's bureaucracy at work."

        Several minutes passed before the phone ran. The guard answered. "Hello. Yeah. I see. Okay. " He hung up the phone.

        "No, we can't do it," he told us. He meant they couldn't give us permission to use their private road.

        We thanked him and left.

        "Well, I guess those bureaucrats needed to justify their pay for the day," I quipped.

        A one-and-a-half-mile drive to Shawnee Overlook, and a turn down to the boat ramp, took us to the water's edge of a slew of the Great Miami River, a canoe access point.

        We touched the water and Dr. Bobo declared, "Close enough. Call it a low point for Ohio."

        Primate pointed us northeast. More undulating country roads took us across Ohio farmlands of corn standing four feet high. We drove through Dayton, skirted Springfield, went through rural towns, much like many mid-western towns, till we turned off the county road and Primate parked the car to within six feet from the sign that read, "The highest point in Ohio, Campbell Hill, 1549 feet." Another high point reached without much more than a twenty second amble from the auto.

        Dr. Bobo laughed. "It's hard to tell which one is harder, Hoosier Hill or Campbell Hill."

        We recorded our presence with photos and drove away before anyone could have a respectable nap.

        The gentle, rolling farm landscape gradually gave way to forests as we neared the Ohio River bordering West Virginia.

        "Drive, drive ... drive ... drive, drive, drive, drive," Primate said.

        "Tomorrow should be an easier day." Dr. Bobo explained, "We have three high points close together, then a low point at Harper's Ferry."

        I quizzed Dr. Bobo, not sure I heard him correctly. "Is that do-able in one day?"

        "Yeah."

        But we were not yet done today. We settled on a campground some thirty miles beyond Clarksburg. Christopher made phone calls to deal with a problem regarding his apartment in California. The long shadows of sunset stretched across the hills as we set up camp and anticipated our meal of canned chili and instant rice, seasoned with spicy peppers and washed down with chilled beer.

        I checked the car's trip meter and noted Primate drove us another 497 miles today. 

        Low points - nine; high points - six.

6/26/12         

          

        An early start got us to the parking lot at Spruce Knob. A 900-foot walk on a gravel path in a brisk, cool breeze brought us to the West Virginia's high point at 4861 feet. Thirty-six steps got us to the top of the concrete observation tower, overlooking the local mountains covered in woods.

        "Next," I heard Dr. Bobo say.

        Primate drove the West Virginia roads as we swerved around curves and slowed to a crawl up hills with 7% and 10% grades. We found the spot to park for a hike. A one-mile gravel road led us to a short trail, both with a combined 700 feet elevation gain, across the West Virginia border into Maryland, to Backbone Mountain at 3360 feet.

        Primate tried to climb the cairn piled at the summit.

        "Get off of that," I warned him, "before you tear it down."

        Christopher captured us in a group photo using a special stand someone built.

        Primate continued to drive. West Virginia forested mountains changed to open patches among rolling hills inhabited by Maryland farms. The day was going well. We went north into Pennsylvania. Clouds gathered. Would it rain?

        Another parking lot offered lots of parking. We walked the 100 yards to the summit, at 3213 feet, of Mount Davis on Negro Mountain, Pennsylvania's high point. Good weather held, although cool breezes buffeted us at the top of a metal observation tower, an additional 66 steps, that provided us views of more forested landscape.

        Our daily discussion began. Where should we camp tonight?

        "I'd like to stop early," I said.

        Primate drove us onward, heading southeast, back towards Harper's Ferry in West Virginia. We made steady progress. We agreed to stop at Harper's Ferry Civil War battle site, but the information center had closed so we read the signs posted.

        "Many captured," Primate mumbled, as we learned that 12,500 Union soldiers surrendered to 'Stonewall' Jackson, the largest number, only surpassed by the number that surrendered on Bataan during WWII.

        Rush hour traffic screamed along the road along the Potomac at the West Virginia and Maryland state line, but with perseverance we parked off the road. A search for the state line at the river's edge ensued.

        Dr. Bobo consulted his GPS device as we worked our way down the bank and stood at the river. "It says the coordinates are 100 hundred feet down there." He pointed down stream.

        We headed that direction along an overgrown path.

        I took a hard look. "Watch out, all this is poison ivy," I pointed out with a wave my hand.

        We avoided the troublesome plants as much as possible. More photos were taken to attest to our newest achievement at West Virginia's low point.

        On the road again, Christopher and Dr. Bobo searched the internet and made several cell phone calls before we agreed to Greenbrier State Park in Maryland as our resting spot for the night.

        "This is good," Dr. Bobo observed. "We'll be about one hour from DC tomorrow morning."

        We made camp and ate dinner in daylight, something of a luxury, and enjoyed our meal of canned chili and instant rice, seasoned with spicy peppers and accompanied with cold beer.

        We logged another 359 miles today. 

        Low points - ten; high points - nine.

Lambeau Field

6/22/12         

        Primate worried over the electrical problem with his car and made phone calls. What to do? Primate opened a discussion with Dr. Bobo and Christopher about our situation. "Can we risk driving on?"

      "Probably, a bad idea. We don't want to be stuck away from a large town," Dr. Bobo replied.

       Your right about that, I thought.

       We proceeded into Duluth to a repair shop and learned the alternator needed replacing or rebuilding. A new alternator could be brought from Minneapolis, available this afternoon, and we'd be on our way later today, worse case.

       "Whichever comes first," I said to the repair shop owner.

       "Yeah," Primate said, clearly relieved over these developments.

       Christopher, Dr. Bobo and I busied ourselves with e-mails, texting, phone calls while we waited at the shop.

       When I sought out the repairman at noon to inquire about the repair status, he informed me, "It's done."

       Primate was relieved. Christopher and Dr. Bobo were disappointed over losing the Wi-Fi connection.

       Dr. Bobo drove us north along the shore of Lake Superior to Gooseberry Falls State Park where we secured a campsite. Along the way we saw amply evidence of recent flooding. The streams ran fast, broken trees littered one bridge, water falls roared, and people viewed scenes from the roadway.

       Primate drove us to the trail head of Eagle Mountain, 2301 feet elevation, the highest point of Minnesota.

       We trudged up the 3.5-mile trail at a good pace, but detoured through the woods when we encountered a stream that had taken possession of the path. We bushwacked thirty minutes through heavy undergrowth until we bypassed the stream. At the summit we took obligatory photos and completed our round trip in three hours.

Primate Looks At The MN High Point. 

       On our return to the campground we stopped in Grand Marais to touch the water of Lake Superior, Minnesota's low point, don't cha' know?

         

       Another dinner of canned chili and instant rice, this time flavored with spicy peppers and washed down with beer, capped the day.

       

       The odometer gained 254 miles, while we gained another high point  and low point, and best of all, according to Primate, "Car fixed."

         

       "And we lost only a few hours in the process," I added.

       Low points - seven; high points - two.

6/23/12         

        Gear packed up, everything dry, we prepared to leave the campground.

        Christopher commented, " I think I understand the psychology of a pack rat. Call me, Creature."

        "Okay, get back in your hole," Dr. Bobo told him.

        We agreed to restock food and gas the car in Duluth.

        "More rain," Primate said, when first drops pelted the windshield.

        We failed to find a suitable place to resupply in Duluth so crossed a bridge into Superior, Wisconsin to purchase our needs, then continued southeast in the rain. Creature slept in the back seat. On the way we passed the Wobbly Hog Saloon, the world's largest deer, according to Dr. Bobo and me, the town of Glidden with evidence of flooding, until we turned left from Ogema, "The gateway to Wisconsin's highest point."

        We reached the parking lot at Timm's Hill and within five minutes stood at the top, 1951.5 feet. Then we climbed the eighty-eight steps to the top of the observation tower to see the views of surrounding hills covered with trees.

        Onward we drove, now north to Upper Michigan. The drive seemed endless.

        "Should we try for our next goal today?" I asked Dr. Bobo.

        "I think we can make it. It's not getting dark until 9PM. We can camp in a National Forest, if we need to," he responded.

        As the day grew long Primate drove the gravel roads that led us to the trail head at Mount Arvon. We discovered we were in luck. The high point lay a mere 150 feet from the parking area. Within five minutes we photographed one another at Michigan's high point, 1979.238 feet.  Gas cost $3.45.9 per gallon. We raced the sun to find a good campsite before dark and found an ideal spot for the night. We set up our tents in near perfect conditions, except for the mosquitoes that buzzed around us, but more rain intruded on our meal preparation, so we retreated to the car to eat our canned chili with instant rice, topped with spicy peppers, and washed down with our two remaining beers.

        The odometer recorded another 457 miles. We recorded two more high points.

        Low points - seven; high points - four.

6/24/12         

        The sound of rain kept me awake several hours. We arose to damp gear and only dried it a little before we packed it away and headed onward.

        "Things should dry out tonight, if we have no rain," Dr. Bobo noted.

        Question of the day - how far could we get?

        Primate got behind the wheel.

        I discovered mosquito bites on my left eyebrow and under my chin amongst week old whiskers. Those creative bloodsuckers, I thought.

        "We should try to get past Chicago, " Dr. Bobo stated.

        "Yea, Monday morning commute traffic would be bad news," I said.

        Dr. Bobo and I each feasted on 1/2 cinnamon bagel covered with chunky peanut butter. Christopher declined.

        Dr. Bobo served as navigator and called out turns and distances as we went.

        "Now we're 122 miles from Green Bay," he announced.

        I had difficulty imagining I would be in Green Bay soon. I've heard of it since first watching the Packers play football on TV.

        We passed by Lambeau Field, left Michigan, went through Spread Eagle, Wisconsin, re-entered Michigan, then back into Wisconsin. I couldn't keep track where I was.

        We passed the "I Don't Know Saloon." Where were you?

        South of Green Bay forests gave way to dairy farms. We passed Norway, then Denmark.

        "We're making good time," I said.

        Dr. Bobo examined the map. "Now that I think about it, we should stop in Sheboygan. Milwaukee may be crowded."

        A motorcycle policeman turned on his siren and pulled over a vehicle headed the opposite direction.

        "Get 'em," I yelled in jest.

        "Random road tax," said Dr. Bobo.

        Primate followed directions and we pulled up to a beach for Wisconsin's low point.

        Primate removed his shoes and stood in Lake Michigan. "Pee," he said, with a grin.

        I looked at Primate with a frown. "Not here, use the public restroom." I pointed to a large building some hundred yards away.

        "K," he replied with a shrug and trundled off.

        We continued south. Vehicles passed us in ones and groups up to six in moving queues above the speed limit. Traffic came to a standstill, then crawled along while we basked in the strong odor of animal waste wafting from an unseen location, before we resumed high speed travel again. We crossed the Kankakee River, flat farmland of northern Indiana, then the Wabash River.

        I recognized these names.

        We focused on getting to a campsite in Indiana. Christopher and Dr. Bobo searched for suitable places on the internet and made phone calls. We settled on a place near the eastern Indiana border.

        I took note of a filling station gas price of $3.39.9 per gallon and thought, what are we doing in California?

        We turned left at Indianapolis and headed east again. The sun set as we arrived at our chosen destination for today, Grampa's Farm Campground RV Park.

        We logged 623 miles and added another low point.

        Low points - eight; high points - four.

Canadian Border

6/21/12         

        Light and warmth from the sun prompted us out of our sleeping bags.

        "I don't know about you guys, but I'm craving a regular breakfast," Christopher said. "Interested?"

        "Sure, Dr. Bobo said.

        "I can go either way," I said.

        "Eat," Primate said.

        "How far can we get today," I asked Dr. Bobo.

        "Well, lets's see," Dr. Bobo paused, "we may be able to make it to the Minnesota low point, or high point, they're close together.

        "Yea, there today," Primate said.

        That's settled then, I thought.

        Dr. Bobo headed us left out of the Valley City Tourist Park, as all of us watched for a suitable cafe.

        Our stomachs supplied with fuel, we headed towards Fargo, where we turned left towards Canada. The green, flat prairie of North Dakota stretched out before us.

        After being quizzed by a Customs agent, and a Border Patrol agent, we tramped through waist high grass, perhaps wandering across the Canadian border by several feet until we reached the muddy bank of the Red River where Dr. Bobo searched for the exact low point of North Dakota. After one false reading we moved along until his GPS receiver indicated we were at the correct spot. The slippery and steep bank made it difficult to touch the water, but we succeeded without falling in.

Primate Avoids Falling Into The River.

      Primate drove us south to Grand Forks where we turned left and headed east across Minnesota. Dr. Bobo made sandwiches. The landscape became flat, if not flatter than flat. Vista of green grass opened before us.

        Dr. Bobo examined the map. "Can you go another 282 miles?" he asked Primate.

        "Yea. If can't, I ask you."

        Foston and Bagley came and went.

        A large white anvil cloud developed on our left. Are we in for more rain we wondered?

        "I'm going to take off my shoes," Dr. Bobo said as we smelled a skunk.

        "Is that you?" I kidded Dr. Bobo.

        "God, I hope not," he chuckled.

        The road turned. We wondered if we would ever pass the anvil cloud. Shevlin, Solway and Bemidji came and went. Christopher slept. The grassy flatland gave way to gentle hills, clumps of forest and lakes. The smell of rain on pavement filled the air. I saw a posted sign and read part of it aloud to Dr. Bobo, VOTE FOR RIBS WHITEBIRD. We laughed.

        "We just crossed the Mississippi River," I pointed out, referring to a sign.

        "That's right , we're at the headwaters of the Mississippi," Dr. Bobo said.

        We continued on towards Duluth, realizing we were running out of time before sunset.

        Dr. Bobo and Christopher consulted maps and the internet for a suitable campsite in Duluth. Primate's car acted up and we were delayed in Grand Rapids, but carried on to Duluth, although we detoured to a campground as local roads were closed due to flooding.

        The restaurant/bar at the campground park served as a needed respite from the day's tribulations.

        We drove 564 miles today.

        Low points - six; high points - one.

Little Big Horn

6/19/12         Loud blasts of passing trains echoed up and down the valley all through the night. I hardly slept. We arose to light rain. Overcast skies shielded us from direct sun as Primate drove us south through Missoula and Butte. We discussed our goal for the day. Where should we stop?

         Overcast skies gave way to white, puffy clouds that hung across a clear, dark blue sky.

         Christopher slept in the back seat. Dr. Bobo dozed in the passenger seat periodically.

         We stopped to refill the gas tank.

          Back on the highway Dr. Bobo consulted his map. "Hey, we're going right past the Little Big Horn Battleground. We should stop there."

          "Yea," Primate said. Primate's seen movies and documentaries on TV about Custer.

          "Good idea. I'd like to stop there," Christopher said.

           Dr. Bobo made sandwiches for us as we drove. We continued on through Bozeman and Billings.

           Primate looked at Dr. Bobo. "Me tired. You drive?"

          "Sure," Dr. Bobo said.

          We stopped in Hardin to fill the gas tank again before leaving I-90. Dr. Bobo got behind the steering wheel. Within several minutes we arrived at Little Big Horn Battleground.

          As we looked out over headstones, where Custer last stood, and beyond, where Indians camped before the battle, Primate pondered Custer's last mistake.

Primate Overlooks the Battlefield.

           "All dead," Primate said.

           That's the gist of it.

          We continued east with a plan to spend the night at Devil's Tower. A road sign welcomed us to Wyoming. Deer appeared by the roadside, we grew weary and Dr. Bobo slowed the car, but we had no close encounters of the third kind.

          Only three campsites remained unclaimed below Devil's Tower, so we grabbed one, set up our tents, and backtracked to a nearby store to purchase beer to wash down our canned chili and instant rice.

          The odometer recorded another 702 miles from Thompson Falls. We crossed the width of Montana today.

6/20/12         Overcast skies welcomed us when we arose. A somewhat early start got us to the area of Wyoming's low point from the South Dakota approach, but a wire gate blocked the private road. We searched for another route to our destination on the Belle Fourche River, but failed our best attempt. We chanced upon Frank, a local farm owner, along a gravel road. He not only gave us the owner's name, from whom we wanted permission to gain access to the point in question, but pulled a phone book from behind his seat and provided us a phone number. With several more minutes discussion we secured permission to open the closed gate.

         I got out of the car to shake Frank's hand and thank him.

         We returned to the closed gate. A one-mile drive followed by a 300 yard trek across a field mined with cow pies, we slide down a four-foot bank and stood in the gravel and mud at the Wyoming and South Dakota border.

         Low points - five; high points - zero.

         Primate drove us at a steady pace over the rolling prairie of South Dakota and into North Dakota through downpours of rain, themselves racing across the landscape. Primate parked the car near North Dakota's high point, 3,205 feet, called White Butte, and prepared to hike the four-mile round trip in rain. The pelting rain abated as we hiked, but gusts of wind to 60 mph blew as we summited.

         Dr. Bobo said, "Let's get off of here. I don't want to be here in lightening."

         Pockets of rain moved across the land, dictated by the wind.

         I took several photos to record our presence.

         "Lightning not good," Primate said.

         We hurried off the summit and were dry by the time we returned to the car.

         Low points - five; high points - one.

         Dr. Bobo looked at his map and joked, "We could see the world's cow in New Salem."

         Primate drove. We proceeded towards out next goal.

         "What's that on the ridge over there?" I pointed to something large, something black and white. Could it be?

         "It's a cow," Christopher, Dr. Bobo and I said together as we laughed.

         "We've seen the biggest cow and didn't even need to leave the road," Dr. Bobo said.

          We concluded we could not reach our next goal, so we stopped in Valley City, 519 miles from Devil's Tower.

         Ah, canned chili and instant rice, I thought, as the sun set.

No Trespassing

6/18/12         A sprinkle of rain ushered us northward for a lazy morning start. Rolling hills covered with green vegetation pleased my eyes. We proceeded to Coeur d' Alene through intermittent rain to meet with Dr. Bobo's brother, before crossing into Montana east of Bonner's Ferry. A gravel road fifteen miles beyond the border led us down towards the Kootenai River, but a metal gate blocked the road. A posted sign suggested, NO TRESPASSING.

         Dr. Bobo hesitated. "I don't know about this."

         Primate said, "Go anyway. Drove long way."

         We stood in silence a few moments.

         "Go anyway."

         I caved to Primate's insistence. "Well, sometimes it's easier to beg forgiveness than to get permission."

         We walked around the gate. The gravel road led us to a dilapidated bridge where Christopher stopped. Dr. Bobo, Primate and I continued along a crude trail. We dodged and trampled wet grass and brush. The path led us up and down the steep slope on the east side of the river. We stopped at the river's edge.

         Dr. Bobo consulted his GPS device for bearings. "It's farther down river."

         The steeply sloped river bank was choked with vegetation. Continuing down river at the water's edge was impossible, so we climbed up two hundred feet to flatter ground, then made our way another 250 hundred yards down stream.

         Dr. Bobo rechecked our position. "It's down there." He pointed directly down the steep bank from our position.

         We slipped on wet, rotted vegetation and loose rock as we eased ourselves towards the river's edge.

         I pictured the granite talus of Mt. Whitney's slopes and the scree on Mt. Williamson. "This reminds me of climbing in the Sierra Mountains."

         When we reached the river again, Dr. Bobo said, "My GPS indicates the low point is 200 feet over there." He pointed to a spot yards out in the swift flowing river.

         "No go," Primate said.

         "Well, this will have to do," I replied.

         We considered this the low point for Montana, clawed our way back up the steep slope and followed the gravel road to the car. Two elk lounged near the road and watched us as we photographed them. Primate drove us another 310 miles south through more intermittent rain. When we stopped for the evening some sixty miles farther on, we felt chilled by the cool air and were ready for warm showers and another hot meal of canned chili and instant rice.

         Low points - four; high points - zero.

Drizzle

6/16/12         "Updait ,updat ."

         Primate wants to update our report. We met Christopher and Dr Bobo, AKA Bob, in the San Francisco Bay area where we spent the night. The next morning we crammed most of our gear into the trunk of Primate's '88 Honda Prelude. The remainder of our gear will accompany Christopher in the back seat. Primate turned right out of Dr. Bobo's driveway, pointing the car north. Yes, Primate has a valid driver's license. Scary thought, huh?

         "Primat driv goode ."

         "Well, Primate ... let's say your driving is okay, everything taken into consideration and we won't go into details about your two accidents."

         The odometer tallied the miles as we proceeded over the hot asphalt of I-5 in California's Sacramento Valley. The air conditioner in Primate's car isn't working, so we roasted in the heat of day under direct sun over straight stretches of highway punctuated by gentle curves that broke the monotony.

         Midway up the valley we passed a fire crew, busy wetting freshly burned grass by one on-ramp. Primate smelled the pungent odor as we passed.

         "Fire," Primate said. His forehead furrowed.

         We took a short break to taste stuffed olives at the Olive Pit.

         "PRimate like anchvi oliv ."

         "That's fine, Primate, but don't put your hand in the jar. Other people will be eating olives out of that."

         We continued towards the southern Oregon border and points beyond. How far would we get today? Dr. Bobo had noted three campgrounds in middle Oregon. Perhaps, we would stop at one of them.

         "Get tired driving," Primate said to Dr. Bobo.

         "Let's check out this campground then." Dr. Bobo pointed to his notes.

         Primate pulled off the freeway and into Pass Creek Park. A gaggle of two dozen geese ambled over short grass towards a small lake. We pondered our options. Dr. Bobo searched for other possible campgrounds farther north as he sat on a derelict flying saucer. We failed to find any, so decided to stop for the night. "Points north" will be there tomorrow. Per the manager's suggestion, we claimed an RV site, then laid out our sleeping gear on the ground, weary of little piles of geese crap littering the ground.

6/17/12         A fine drizzle drove Primate from his sleeping bag.

         "Time to be up," Primate said.

         Dr. Bobo arose shortly after and both, he and Primate packed their gear, then prompted Christopher to do likewise.

         As Primate eased the car out of the campground, I noted, "We added 520 miles to the odometer yesterday."

         "Making good time," Dr. Bobo said, "making good time."

         We hoped to do as much today as we headed north to Portland, then west to the Pacific Ocean. Overcast skies with stiff winds required a jacket for the final 100 yards to the water's edge to accomplish our first goal - low point of Oregon. Primate drove us through intermittent rain to our second goal - the low point of Washington State also along the coast.

         "Make goode tiMe."

         "Yes, Primate, good time," I noted.

         "Hey, Dr. Bobo, where's our next point?" I asked.

         "Oh, it's in Idaho, just across the border from the southeastern corner of Washington."

         "How many miles?"

          Dr. Bobo did some figuring. "It's 350 miles."

         We skirted Portland, Oregon, and proceeded east towards another, different Portland, the one in Maine. We'll zigzag to high points and low points in the northern states along the way, until we cross the continent. Then, we'll reverse direction, head westward and home again.

         East of Portland Dr. Bobo drove us up the Columbia River Valley, then northeast, to give Primate a needed driving break.

         Primate took over again in Waitsville, WA, and we crossed into Idaho at Lewiston and Dr. Bobo searched for the true low point along the river at the confluence of the Snake and Clearwater Rivers.

Primate Stands at Idaho Low Point.

         Hell's Gate State Park, only four miles out of Lewiston provided an ideal spot to stop for the night, 697 miles from last night's camp. Canned chili and instant rice, heated on a camp stove, never tasted so good.