August 5, 2003, evening. At Randolph Collier State Park, near Chiloquin, Oregon. Collier SP is quiet, with pleasant wooded sites, full hookups for $17 per night. Facilities are clean and the campground wasn't anywhere near full. I didn't notice that they have several pull-throughs until after I had utilized my virtually nonexistent backing skills to get into this space. The Williamson River flows just behind the vantage point of this photo (adds charm, but bring your mosquito repellent if you plan to be outside at dusk.) In August, it was downright cold at night. Not noticing that my thermostat was not all the way off, I managed to exhaust my Optima blue top battery overnight because the furnace blower came on and tried all night to keep me warm with the pilot off. (I hadn't hooked up to their electricity.) In my sleepy stupor, I thought that noise was some obnoxious generator belonging to the modern SOB next door, and wondered why I was so cold. Well, luckily next day was more driving and plenty of charging time. Go, Univolt!

August 7, 2003, morning. At Fiddler Point on Pleasant Ridge, about eight miles south of -as the crow flies- and two thousand feet higher than The Dalles, Oregon. The first night, a tremendous thunderstorm awoke me with the impression that it was hailing, the rain was pounding so hard on my aluminum den. I scrabbled with the curtains to look out to see whether in fact it was hail. Being a city girl, I admit that the thought of a ruined Airstream came to mind before the thought of a ruined wheat crop, the harvest of which I had come up to witness. Well, it wasn't hail, and besides, I figured, both crop and trailer were insured, so once the lightning quit flashing on all sides and the thunder quit rolling across the sky, I finally fell back asleep. The next morning, as shown here, was gorgeous, everything damp and clean and fresh. However, harvest obviously could not take place that day as planned.

August 8, 2003. This is the house my father and my grandfather grew up in. With its new coat of paint and Mt. Hood in the background, it looks beautiful. Because of the delayed harvest, there was plenty of opportunity to visit with the tenant who has lived there (with no running water, I might add), for the past 25 or so years, and to hike, admire 93-year-old Great-Aunt Doris charging around in her red Puma sneakers, participate in the annual painting of the cistern lid at my great-great grandfather's homestead, and simply relax.

August 9, 2003, afternoon. The wheat finally dried out to a barely acceptable 11.5 percent moisture, and harvest began. Watching the combines cut the wheat and pour it into the waiting trucks, which in turn carried it to the bins, was very exciting, if rather dirty and hot. The crop turned out well, an estimated 39 bushels per acre.